*****
But it’s not that simple. Because I wake in the middle of the night, at quarter past one in the morning, and I can’t get back to sleep. I lie there for twenty, thirty minutes thinking more thoughts than I know what to do with. When my eyes, which have adjusted to the darkness in Charlie’s bedroom, seek out his profile and watch how his chest rises and falls in his sleep, I can’t stand it anymore. I push off his duvet and climb out of bed, careful not to disturb him.
Because it will cover up more of me than my own top, I steal Charlie’s T-shirt he wore yesterday and pull it over my head. Then I slowly open the door, watching Goldie asleep in her bed in the corner of the room, checking she’s not going to wake up and turn into a raged guard dog. But she stays asleep, her breath as slow and heavy as Charlie’s.
I go to his kitchen and pour myself a glass of water, and then I lean back against the countertop as I think about what to do next. I feel pressure in my neck and shoulder, on my left-side, always on my left-side and I use my free hand to push down on the pain points. Whenever I can’t sleep at home, whenever I feel discomfort like this, I normally pull out my latest sketchbook and get doodling to try and distract my brain. More often than not, within ten minutes or so, my eyes fall heavy and my hand slows and I drift off to sleep. Too often I’ve woken up with a sketchbook beside me in bed or a pencil underneath me.
But I’m not at home.
I sigh.
Maybe I should just go home. I could easily call a taxi and while it would cost a small fortune, I can justify the cost if it gets me an extra four hours sleep in my own bed.
But then there’s Charlie’s offer for a shower. And the possibility of morning sex.
One last time.
“Fuck it,” I say as I start to study the neatly arranged piles of books and magazines under his coffee table and find a notebook. He’s only written in a few of the first pages and adorably, it’s a list of new year’s resolutions dated 1stJanuary this year.
I spend a few minutes grinning at how Charlie has included “roller skate twice a week in summer” and “learn to play the ukelele” in his list, but my smile falters when I read “Apply for Teacher Training???” at the bottom of the list.
“Oh, Charlie,” I say out loud.
I turn to a blank page and then settle on the sofa. Reaching up, I pull a biro out from the pot of pens on the shelf behind me and then I start drawing.
At first, my doodles are exactly that. Scatty sketches and squiggles I’m not thinking too much about, but after three pages of this, I’m arguably more restless than when I started.
I sigh again, and then I jump out of my skin as I spot movement out of the corner of my eye. But just as my hand lands on my chest and finds my heart racing there, I realise it’s Goldie. Slowly and undeniably sleepily, she stalks towards me and then, as if that was too much effort, she flops down at my feet. In seconds, her breath returns to a relaxed rhythm that suggests she’s fallen asleep again.
“You’re doing everything you can to make me like you, aren’t you?” I stroke her head gently for a few seconds.
Then I straighten up, inspired by what I really want to draw.
It doesn’t take long and it’s one of those drawings that is only a drawing. It would certainly make a strange tattoo, but sometimes I just like to draw for drawing’s sake, to make an image I only want to look at on paper. And this image comes together so quickly, so easily, I get lost in its creation. My thoughts clear. My mind hums with a soft energy. My hands stay busy and the pen doesn’t move quick enough to capture what my brain can already see so vividly.
Until it’s done. And when it’s done, I stare at it for a long, long time. After a minute or two, I watch as one of my fingers comes out to stroke the lines that are Goldie’s fur. Then my index finger slides up the page and it lands on Charlie’s face. I trace his smile slowly. I run my finger down the full length of his body. I then bring it back up to his face and stroke the side of it, specifically where I drew in the brackets around his smile. I don’t know how long I’ve been smiling myself as I touch my picture of Charlie, but I know it’s too long. It’s too much. I’m feeling too much for Charlie.
I need to leave.
I write a quick message underneath the drawing and then rip the page out of his notebook. Walking to the kitchen, I leave it propped up beside his kettle, and then I creep back into his bedroom, find my clothes and my phone, and order myself a taxi.
Chapter Twenty-Six
It Ain’t Over Til It’s Over
Charlie
When I wake and Mina’s not lying beside me, I immediately get up and start looking for her in my flat. As soon as I have made my way through the apartment once, I feel utterly stupid for searching for her this way. I feel completely idiotic for expecting her to have stayed.
That sense of stupidity doesn’t leave me as I take the hot shower that I’d wanted Mina to share with me. I don’t feel any less of an idiot as I get dressed. And I’m still feeling like a fool as I walk into the kitchen, but then I see something resting up against my kettle and I stop feeling everything and anything.
I rush to pick up the piece of paper and feel my jaw drop when I see exactly what it is. It’s a cartoon-style drawing of me walking Goldie. I’m wearing the clothes I wore yesterday and I daresay Mina drew it inspired by our walk across the Common yesterday. I’m smiling broadly, and so is Goldie.
Then I see her note.
Dear Charlie, thank you for a surprisingly good weekend. I needed my own bed. Fuck you and your hot showers and your actually quite nice dog. See you in the office, Mina. P.S. I’m going to wipe the floor with you today. That lead is mine.
I smile. I smile until I laugh. And I laugh loudly.
