Was it real, this feeling, or just a fear, the old one, that everything was ruined?
This can’t be happening, I kept thinking. But the heaviness in my stomach said it was.
On Sunday I was awake till early morning. Rain, wind. The house was still, just the hum of the fridge. I wanted to put on the heating. I got dressed, had tea, smoked out the back door. I looked in the fridge at the bacon and eggs. Yellow and red stripes on the bacon packet, dates: Sell by, Use by … There’s time, I thought. I texted Jason, Rainy here, hope the weather’s still good in Newquay. No reply. Maybe he was out, maybe it was still sunny there. My son on a beach with his friends, girls, cans of beer, the sun, their shoulders burning. I fried an egg and looked at it, white, shiny, a brown curl at the edge. When it was cold, I broke the yolk with the end of a knife. Tilted the plate, watched it drool, yellow goo. Drank a glass of orange juice. This couldn’t be happening. I lay on the sofa with the light on.
Monday came, and it was the same as always. I hadn’t slept much, slept in bits, waking to argue in my head with Damian, who didn’t say anything back, just smiled and smoked, or got in his car and drove away, slowly.