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52
But I Can
It was raining. I stared out of the ranch slider window in my flat at the grey sky and puddles forming. My barbecue had spiderwebs on it; they glistened like jewellery with sparkling raindrop diamonds.
I missed my cat.
I stared at the book I was reading; the words blending together. It took too long for me to realise I had read the same paragraph multiple times. I closed the book and sighed.
I was used to being alone. I liked my own company. But the rain was wet, and the sky was dark, and somehow I felt it. It weighed me down and left me crushed beneath it.
I wondered if this was what it felt like for my mum.
I contemplated switching the PlayStation on. I stared at that, too, for too long.
A knock on the front door broke my trance. I reached up to scrub my face and realised I’d been crying. I shook my head and forced myself to stand. My feet felt like lead, my body on automatic pilot.
I knew what Gareth would say. The clinical psychologist had a way about him; he always managed to make me feel less abnormal. Being sad was OK, he’d say. One. Two. Three.
I stumbled down the short hallway and peered through the peephole. Michael stood under the small eave in running shorts and a tight t-shirt, looking wet. My lips twitched as I unlocked the door and stared up at him.
“Great day for a run,” he said.
I shook my head. “You’re crazy,” I said.
“Crazy good at running.”
We stared at each other, the rain pouring down around us.
“Are you going to invite me in?” he asked.
“Oh, sure,” I said, and stood aside.
“I could catch my death of cold, you know,” he said.
“Sure,” I agreed, not believing him. I opened the hot water cupboard and pulled out a warm fluffy towel and handed it to him.
I couldn’t stop watching as he ran the material over his hair, his arms flexing.
“I could kill for a coffee,” he said, once he was dry.
I realised we hadn’t shifted from the small hallway. It felt intimate but also not. The reminder I hadn’t been performing my duties as hostess correctly made it awkward.
I spun on my heel and walked to the kitchen. Michael took a look around my flat.
“Nice place,” he said.
“It’s OK,” I replied.
The kettle clicked off, and I poured us two mugs of coffee. I grabbed a plate of biscuits and crossed to the lounge. It took all of three steps to reach it.
“It’s small,” I said. “But it works for now.”
I sat down next to him and watched as he took a sip of his drink. He grabbed a biscuit and sat back on the couch, making himself comfy. His eyes scanned me.
“Bad day?” he asked softly.
I realised I must have looked a fright. I was still in my PJs, and my eyes would have been red from crying.
