A tiny black void opens behind Neil’s left ear, stark against the pale peeling pink of the cafe wall. He swats at it absentmindedly, misses, swats again. The buzzing starts and stops as the fly shimmies across the plaster. An electric jolt from my eardrums to the soles of my feet and back again.
“Are you even listening to me?”
My gaze snaps down to Neil’s moist lips, pulled gently down in a soft frown. The lines around his mouth deepen as I glance back up to the fly, to his lips, avoiding his bright eyes that I know are boring into me. Can feel drilling under the layers of my skin like a sliver worming its way into my bloodstream.
“I’m not sure what else to do.” I can hear the irritation slipping into his voice now. Tight control unravelling at the seams.
The fly does another hop behind Neil’s ear before pushing off the wall. Drops down behind Neil’s shoulder, and then it’s gone.
“You’re not even looking at me.”
I feel the wind from it’s tiny wings on my face. Don’t look for it. He’s right, though. I’m not looking at him. I’m looking at his hands now. Palms up on the sticky table between us in supplication. Calluses I have run my teeth over.
“Del, for fuck’s sake, you could at least look at me.”
And I do. Not because he asks but because I suddenly remember where we are. Why we’re here. Why he asked me to meet him at this cafe. The one where we first met two years ago.
Trying to rewrite a beginning with an ending. Soften the blow. For him or for me, I do not know. I don’t care. His neck is red and I am numb and between us lies a bloated corpse we can’t even begin to resurrect. Not even if we wanted to.
Can we just bury the corpse and go?
“What,” comes his voice, faltering and angry, but resignation lines the consonants and vowels like cheap corduroy. Itchy against my skin.
“What?” I parrot. I don’t think I mean to speak at all.
But now his eyes are boring into mine, the brightness blinding. I am pinned, and I can not even blink, and the pressure builds against my skin. Too much. Too much.
“What is wrong with you?” A whisper. Neil has given up pretence. Still, he will not make a scene. Not even in this.
The silver bell over the door jingles to announce another person coming or going. Warm air caresses my ankles. The cup in my hand grows cold with the things I cannot say.
And that, that is the crux of it. Has been since the very start. A quirk, at first. Then something he bore, because he was in love with me. And now, now he’s made a choice not to bear me at all.
Because I can not bare myself to him. Not in the way he wants. Needs. Not in the way others do. Not in a way that makes him feel like he’s made it past my defences, my shield, my walls.
I told him from the very beginning that this is who I am. But it is not enough. It is never enough.
The fly is back again, this time swooping lazily close to Neil’s discarded spoon. Black coffee, one sugar, a pinch of cream. Stirred clockwise, tap the spoon on the rim. Place the spoon face down so the liquid doesn’t pool. Sip once, too hot. Wait for it to cool a bit.
Exactly how much is a pinch of cream?
The bell jingles again. The warm air tickles my ankles. A screeching laugh from two tables over, one woman leaning farther over the table towards her companion. Girlfriend. They’re holding hands.
The bell jingles again.
Neil swats at the fly absentmindedly, misses. The fly buzzes towards my side of the table. It avoids my spoon, like it knows it’s in dangerous territory. Doesn’t it know it’s safe on my side?
“Del. Del.”
I can tell by the tone he’s been calling my name a few more times than I’ve heard.
His hands aren’t laying on the table between us anymore. They’re holding his wallet, pulling out money. His chair squeaks as he pushes back from the table. The sun blinds me when he moves. It takes a moment to blink away the afterimage of him seared into my retina.
The fly lands on top of the cash Neil has thrown on the table. His coffee sits untouched, the pinch of cream floats congealed on the surface.
The bell jingles again, warm air sliding over my ankles. I take a sip of my coffee, and it’s cold, and I do not mind.
A part of me wonders if I should have found the right words to keep Neil at the table. With me. But I know the words don’t exist.
It doesn’t matter.
The living never stay too long around the dead.
