She said she needed to try.
And I didn’t give her reasons otherwise.
But I suppose it doesn’t really matter what she said, or what I said, what she thinks, what I think, or even what Elvis thinks, because the outcome would still be the same.
Me. Left behind.
Maybe there’s something innate in me?
I find myself laughing unpleasantly. Self-sacrifice? More like fucking cowardice.
Just like the contents of this glass.
I hold it up to the light as I stare. Then, without a second thought, I dump the contents down the sink.
At the tip-tap of Elvis’s nails, I decide I’ll take him for his evening walk. Life carries on, doesn’t it? Even when you feel like sticking your fucking head in the gas oven. Maybe it’s fortunate I only have electric.
Jokes, but nolols. Because I haven’t got the wherewithal.
‘What have you got there?’
Between Elvis’s teeth is something small, blue and silky. Something that has seen the inside of a washing machine quite recently. Something that will be going there again. Heather’s knickers.
‘Is this your way of trying to say she won’t be needing them this weekend?’
The vodka reverse engineers itself in my stomach, turning to potatoes as I struggle to wrestle a wisp of fabric from thirty-five kilos of mutt.
‘Get the fuck off, Elvis.’
But he just growls. It’s just one too many acts of contrariety that I can take today. I’m over it. Over myself. Because fuck it—just fuck it. I was right when I said love ruins because I feel like a wreck. How can I possibly feel any worse?
Well, other than spending the evening looking at Heather’s underwear.
Wondering.
Imagining.
Telling myself I don’t deserve her.
Say it enough and I’ll start to believe it.
Instead, I grab my coat.
‘You’re on your own, mate. But I’ll be back.’ I slip my wallet into my back pocket at the same time I shove my feet into my shoes.
‘I’ll call the kid next door when I’m on the way to the station.’ And I’ll google the train times on my phone. There are probably a dozen trains heading up that way today, and though I have no idea where she’ll be, I’ll find out on the way.
What if I’m too late? What if she’s already slept with him.
Then it’ll be your own fucking fault, won’t it?
Also, it might work in my favour because nothing will be as good as us together. Nothing has ever had such combustible chemistry.
Alos, and I feel quite confident on this, he probably has a really small dick.
I’ll find her cousin’s number; she can get his address from her brother. I’ll make up some bullshit excuse if I have to because thishasto work. With a glance at Elvis’s bowl to make sure he has water, I grab my phone, simultaneously opening Uber app as I open my front door ... and step on a dainty toe.
‘Ouch, Archer! Watch where you’re putting your bloody big feet.
