Five months in, when Soren’s lease was expiring, and Gareth was becoming increasingly aware that the drive to Rookton was too much distance between himself and his boyfriend, they looked for a new place together. They had found a cottage, not an overly long drive from Gareth’s gym, tiny and somewhat dated but also characterful and cosy, with an actual fireplace in the sitting room.
On their mantelpiece were three items: a book onhaikupoems—they had bought it as a housewarming gift to themselves, Krystal giving them a knowing look from behind the register that made them both flush—flanked by two standing picture frames.
The frame on the left held a single Post-it note, on which Soren—whimsical, wonderful, lovable Soren, whom Gareth had learned during this past year-and-a-half sang power ballads in the shower, needed their own set of blankets because theywould accidentally hog any shared ones, owned more mugs filled with pens than he did ones to drink out of, left Post-it noteseverywhere—many of them covered in poems for Gareth to find—who had indeed helped Gareth make all their sharedhaikufantasies into realities, though him moaningharder please, Daddywhile Gareth was balls-deep inside him had cracked them up laughing, Gareth having to wait for them both to calm down before fulfilling the request—had written:
In the afterglow,
a realisation hits me:
I’m in love with you
They had left this Post-it on the nightstand that Gareth used, for him to find when he woke in the morning, muscles pleasantly sore from the previous night’s activities, sleep-dimmed eyes widening as he properly comprehended what was written on it—particularly that last line.
After reading it, Gareth had gone straight to the kitchen, ignored the coffee Soren nervously offered him, and kissed them breathless, only stopping kissing to say, “I love you, too.”
In the frame on the right was a note Gareth had anxiously handed to Soren during their first anniversary candlelit dinner, on which he had carefully written:
I’m far too nervous
to ask out loud, so I wrote:
Will you marry me?
The notepaper was in two parts. Soren, unable to speak through tears, unable to find a Post-it pad anywhere, had frantically torn one corner off the note, lunged for the nearest pen, and scrawledyesin shaky letters.
Gareth swore that one syllable was the greatest poetry he had ever read.
Another Love by Rina Green
“Are you listening? Hello?” Pauley asked.
“Repeat that, I didn’t understand what you said.” I snapped out of my stupor.
My friend’s words, just spoken on the phone, were still swirling in my head as meaningless sounds.
“I’m telling you, he’s been dating this Christine for about five years, maybe even longer. Do you want me to introduce you to Randa, and she can tell you everything herself?”
I was silent, unable to comprehend what we were actually talking about.
“What’s wrong with you? Hey, wake up! Why are you so quiet?” Pauley persisted.
“I…no, it can’t be…” The news was slowly settling into a corner of my soul, corroding my comfortable little world.
“Are you upset? Don’t worry, all men are like that. It’s just that we don’t know it, but they’re all ready to sleep with anyone. And they have mistresses, but that’s nothing, it’s expected given their status—if they have their own business, then they inevitably have a mistress. He loves you, though. And he always comes home. Right? So don’t worry too much. Give him a little lecture, make him feel guilty, and you’ll be able to twist him around your little finger.” My friend’s voice was somehow excitedly sympathetic, as if she was both worried and enjoying herself at the same time. For some reason, I found it disgusting to listen to her.
“Thanks for the news, but I’m busy right now. We’ll talk later.” I was about to hang up.
“Wait! Let me come over to you now?”
I got angry. Pauley’d found herself a great way to entertain herself.
“No, no, I’m leaving now, I have things to do.” And Ifinally pressed the hang-up button.
The phone slipped from my weakened hand onto the sofa where I was sitting during the conversation. And I suddenly felt a sharp emptiness in the house, and the fact that I was alone here struck me with a clear awareness of loneliness, not only physical. I felt cold, and there was a bitter taste in my throat, and my eyes burned more and more from the tears I was holding back.
I hugged myself, the resentment towards my husband and self-pity finally reached their peak, and tears, at first with difficulty, and then in a flood, poured from my eyes. I was sobbing. Loudly sobbing, swaying back and forth, I tried to expel the pain that had settled and grown and grown somewhere in my chest. But eventually the tears dried, leaving only emptiness and hopelessness. With a broken sigh, I got up and slowly shuffled to the kitchen to make some strong tea.
I need to wash my face. Dominic will be back soon. What should I tell him? Or should I pretend I don’t know anything?
