Photo by Luba Ertel on Unsplash
by Emily MacDonald
And because the cat was out, I was late for work, late for the critical meeting, another black mark was chalked against my name and ‘poor timekeeping’ was cited at year end as a reason for downgrading my bonus.
It was you who left my shoes on the stairs, so I tripped, pitched forward in my rush to answer the door and when I grabbed the banister to arrest my fall, I wrenched my shoulder, and the months of pain cost months of private physio we couldn’t afford.
It was your parcel being delivered by the knock at the door, yet another book, the books you inhaled—lost yourself in—to add to the collection towering over your side of the bed, and I suspected you preferred reading to conversing with me.
It was you who answered the phone when I was away, took the call saying my mother was dwindling, and though you said you tried to contact me, rang everyone, everywhere I was supposed to be, she might still be here—I know she’d still be here—if you hadn’t answered what was meant for me.
And when you left, packing your cardboard boxes of books into the car, you said it wasn’t about blame, just the differences between two people, and how sad it was because of how big those differences could prove to be.
After I closed the door, I stared at the naked shelves with the dust echoes of where your books had been, and I found myself calling the cat who’d gone months before, and I willed the phone to ring so I could hear you say you were sorry, you were to blame, I willed you to ask for forgiveness and to want to come home again.
Emily Macdonald lives in London, UK. Her collection of driving related stories Wheel Spin and Traction, is out now with Alien Buddah Press.
