December 27th
A letter arrives through the slot with a snap.
I lift my head from the couch. Even from up the stairs, above the bakery, I always hear the mail come. I see the half-finished bottle of whisky on a cushion beside me, then look across to see that the cupboard—your cupboard—is still closed.
If that doesn’t deserve half a bottle of whisky, I don’t know what does. Soon it will be a new year and I can’t take you with me. I say this every year.
And every year you come anyway.
If I could find the part of my brain where you hitchhike, maybe then the therapy would work. But, who knows, this year might be different. I check the time: half past nine, the post is early. My head is thumping as if there are a hundred hammers in there. In the cab on the way back from Mum’s last night, I watched the Christmas lights go off one by one, as I tried not to be sick on the back seat. I have nothing else to do today but recover from a hangover. I’m not rostered on at the travel agency, even though I told them I could work over the Christmas sale period.
My phone beeps.
Nick. Of course.
You feel OK this morn? 😉 x
Christ. What did I send him? I check through the messages from last night: several about wanting to see him. Then I went quiet. What I always do. Today I reply; it’s the least he deserves.
Yeah, thanks. Went straight to bed. We should catch up soon.
Do I mean that? I’m not sure.
I’m also not sure whether to put a kiss after my words. My fingers stay frozen. Was it you who took away my ability to decide on anything? God knows I’ve had a thousand sessions with Rhiannon, my therapist, but it never gets any better. Your fault. Whenever something goes wrong, it’s easier to put your name on it. It’s almost fun to blame you when the boiler breaks down, or the tube’s delayed, or I get food poisoning…or drunk.
I shut my eyes and press send, without an x, and then feel sick about that too. I’m pushing him away, just like Mum says I do with everyone. True to form, I don’t answer the messages from Anna and Neri, both asking about my plans for New Year’s Eve.
I pad downstairs, feeling sorry for the postman who has to work the day after Boxing Day.
Another beep…
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