Class in the afternoon. EU Competition Law. That’s an interesting question, yeah. I think in a sense that goes more into the realm of jurisprudence. Afterwards, the dark carpeted corridors of the arts block. Three o’clock her lecture finishes. Could get another coffee downstairs and hang around, he thinks. Even just to lay eyes on her. Feel better then. Tell her about Christine, about Ivan, the phone call, dissolve his bad feelings in the familiar tonality of her conversation. Black, no sugar, paces the length of the concourse checking his emails again, sipping, too hot. Typing with one thumb: Thanks for this. Yes, that’s correct. At ten to three the other doors start opening, students filing out, zipping up jackets, yawning, chatting amongst themselves. Loud undifferentiated hum of conversation. Waits outside to see her as the other lecture halls empty themselves, unspooling face after face. Door of her room still closed. On the hour. Then a minute or two past. Cooling coffee in his hand he hits the button, goes inside. Empty and silent the interior. Down all the rows of folded seats, a few discarded pens and pieces of scrap paper. Vacant lectern with its angled microphone. He walks back out letting the door swing closed behind him. Did he get that wrong, the hour. Check her office in that case. Odd he thinks the anxious feeling. Across the concourse again, drops the empty cup in the bin, and he’s climbing the stairs. Turn right down the dark corridor to her door: PROFESSOR SYLVIA LARKIN. Reassuring specificity of the brown engraved nameplate, the little Max Beerbohm cartoon of Henry James snooping at a bedroom door. Knocks and gets no answer. Places like Henry his ear to the door, hears nothing. Shakes his head, knocks again, louder. Recognising in himself some dread feeling, something wrong. Woman coming down the corridor towards him, he turns, and dimly recognising says: Sylvia around? One of her colleagues, holding a lunchbox in one hand, unlocking her office door with the other. No, sorry, she says. Home sick today, I think. He nods, feels himself nodding, feels the various muscles that are required to produce this small gesture contracting and stretching as necessary. Ah, okay, he says. Thanks. The woman enters her office then, saying aloud as she leaves Peter’s field of vision: No worries. The door closes. Once more alone in the dim carpeted corridor. Home sick: ah, okay. Silently in solitude he makes his way back down the windowless staircase.
Outside, he takes his phone from his pocket and lights the screen. Taps and taps again. Begins typing.
PETER: Hey, I hear you’re out sick from work. Feeling ok?
PETER: If I can help at all, let me know
In the improbably blue sky over Dawson Street a small white cloud appears, alone. Cold sunlight. Don’t worry, it was nothing. I just wanted to complain about my mother, brother, about my work, my personal life. I forgot again or studiously suppressed the certain knowledge that you are very often and presumably right now in excruciating pain. It’s just something I prefer not to contemplate. No, I just feel kind of slighted by the fact that you’re off work and you didn’t tell me. Like some random colleague from your office knows that you’re sick and I don’t. Never mind, not that. Yes, I was looking for you, but I only wanted to see and be near you, and actually it wasn’t going to matter what either of us said as long as we could be in physical proximity to one another, making eye contact, breathing each other’s breath for a while, how does that sound.
SYLVIA: That’s very kind thank you
Small white rounded cloud passing slowly and in silence over the sun. Change in the quality of light on the street, dimming, greying, the outlines of buildings less defined now, loss of contrast.
SYLVIA: Actually if you don’t mind it would be very helpful if you could pick up my prescriptions for me and just leave them outside the apartment door
SYLVIA: If you’re in town already but if not don’t worry
Dread again and deeper in the pit of his stomach. Messages unpunctuated. Why at the door, why leave it at the door. Resting in bed perhaps and forgets he has his own key: but how could she forget. Only a few weeks ago. When every night he. Might be something contagious then, doesn’t want him to catch. Begins to walk with long strides to the pharmacy, over the tram tracks, typing as he goes.
PETER: No problem. I’ll be at your apartment in 15
PETER: Do you have covid symptoms? I can pick up tests if so
SYLVIA: No it’s nothing like that
SYLVIA: Just in pain
SYLVIA: Nothing to worry about
Artificial bell of the tram passing. Sick feeling, his reflection flashing and vanishing in the darkened windows of the carriage beside, one hand in his pocket clutching his phone to feel in case it vibrates. Heart beating hard. Bright fragrant interior of the pharmacy like a migraine, shelves of plastic packaging, cosmetics, hair products. They know him in here, he’s been before, collecting her prescriptions. Damp his hands and tingling sensation. Pays up and walks back with wide rapid step to the street, paper package rustling in his pocket. Pulse of his phone and he’s lighting the screen, new message.
SYLVIA: You can just leave the medicine outside my door if you’re passing thanks
Reading, he glances up, trying not to walk into anyone, and back at the screen. Why at the door. Because she doesn’t want him to come near, he thinks. Because of what happened. And has no one else to help her. Feels as if rather than breathing he is swallowing raw the dirty urban air. To think of her in pain. And what is that thought. A way of provoking in himself merely a familiar suite of bad feeling. Guilt, self-hatred, something else, worse. Nothing achieved, no solace provided. Only alternative however is not to think, not to imagine or even try. Leave her even in his own mind alone and untouched in her agony. Perform unfeelingly the various duties, pick up the medicines, call by the hospital when she needs collecting. To her it would probably make no difference. Not to be thought of, since his thoughts accomplish nothing. Why think then. Why open that part of his brain, why gaze with such dread down into the bottomless emptiness that is the suffering of another person, emptiness he can never measure or touch. Like going along to his dad’s meetings with the oncologist. Asking intelligent questions, remembering the right details, exact haemoglobin count at the last blood draw, 10.6 off the top of his head. What was it all for, the show of erudition, command of detail. Not as if it made a difference. Insurance against future shame. I was there, I served my hours, punched my time card, don’t forget. I did everything that could be done. Don’t blame me. I was there. While his father sat timidly beside him, embarrassed probably by his peremptory manner. Afraid of alienating the doctors. Why even think about that now. The suffering of another person. Which he failed to stop. False show of competence only disguising the fact of his uselessness, his failure to do anything, to make anything better, to make any difference at all.
Reaching at last the door of her building he fumbles with the keys, ascends two at a time the familiar staircase. Painted walls marked by trailing bike handles. At her door he knocks, swallowing, and says aloud: It’s me. No sound from inside. I have my key, he adds. I can let myself in. Side of his face almost pressed to the door he hears a faint muffled noise. Then her voice, strained, calling out: No, it’s okay. Just leave it where you are, thank you. In his grip the paper bag crumpled, damp. You don’t want me to drop it inside for you? he asks. It’ll save you coming out. She gives no answer. No sound, nothing. Sour taste in his dry mouth he glances at the other apartment door along the hall, closed, silent. I think I’ll come in, if that’s okay, he says. He waits and hears no protest. Slides his key into the lock, waits again, and hears nothing. Slowly turns the key and enters. Dim little hallway lighted only by the open door into her living room, white daylight leaking. He closes the door behind him, takes off his coat, his shoes. In a thin voice she says from the other room: I’m alright, there’s nothing to worry about. He hangs his coat up on the hook, answering automatically: I’m not worried.
Entering the room he sees her lying on the floor, between the coffee table and the sofa. Not quite face down, half on her side, and with her hand she shields her eyes, hiding from him her expression. A white cotton t-shirt blotted with sweat she wears and a pair of grey sweatpants, the seam of one leg twisted the wrong way around her ankle. Beside her on the floor, her phone, and a plastic basin into which she has been sick. Bitter odour in his nose and mouth. She says without looking: I’m just in a lot of pain. And I don’t feel like trying to get up right now. But there’s nothing wrong. Controlled minutely her voice. The room he thinks hot. She has fallen on the floor and can’t get up. Why she told him not to come in, he knows now. Not to see her like this. He stands there looking down at her. Okay, he says. I’ll get you a glass of water and you can try to take your medicine. How does that sound? Still with her face in her hand she gives a kind of nod. He goes to the kitchen, lets the tap run cold and then fills a glass. Opens the cardboard packaging, creases two tablets from the foil. Crossing back to the living room he gets down beside her on the rug. Here, he says. Gives into one grasping hand the two tablets and then passes her the water. Lifting awkwardly her head she swallows once, and again. Blotchy her face he thinks. Rinsing the water inside her mouth she drains the glass. He straightens up, takes the basin from the floor and brings it to the bathroom. Hears her saying desperately from behind him: No, Peter, don’t. Just leave it, please. Methodically he empties the basin into the bowl of the toilet, thin whitish yellow foam, and flushes. Cold churn of running water and the cistern refilling. Rinses in the bathroom sink the bowl, tapping on the rim, and then returns, leaving the door ajar. Places the basin back down saying: I’ll leave it here for you. Are you just sick from the pain? Averting her gaze she answers yes. Tearful her voice. Why didn’t you call me? he asks. For a moment she’s silent and then says without looking: I didn’t want to bother you. Hard feeling in his chest. Don’t talk like that, he says. She gives no reply. Sensation of pressure inside his head, inside his ears, almost ringing. How long have you been lying there? he asks. She wipes roughly at her eyes with her hand. You can be angry with me if you like, she says. It won’t change anything. He goes on watching her a little longer and then at last gets down on the floor, rests his back against the leg of the coffee table. Her hand gripping the edge of the rug he sees, tassels between her fingers. Skin stretched translucent over the bones of her knuckles. He lays his hand on hers and she doesn’t pull away. Only lies there saying nothing. Ten minutes, twenty. Now and then as if against some blinding light she closes her eyes, contortions of pain moving through her face and body, and grips hard his hand hurting. Watching her he feels: what, nothing. Overwarm, sweating, mild discomfort of sitting on the floor, nothing else discernible. Only a kind of pounding feeling somewhere inside himself, a certain indescribable pressure. To see her like this. On the floor, drenched in sweat, sick, exhausted. Alone, not wanting to bother anyone. Her hand damp in his or is it his in hers. You just tell me when you’re ready to try getting up, he says. And I’ll help you into bed. Okay? She exhales a hard little breath. Jaw trembling he sees. And her eyes closed. Okay, she says. I’ll try.
He gets up and she allows him to help her to her feet. Through the cloth of her t-shirt he can feel with his fingers the thin bands of her ribcage. Hissing intake of breath through her teeth, wincing, but she says aloud: I’m okay, I’m fine. Standing she bends almost double, clutching his arm with tight fingers, and says she’ll go to the bathroom. He helps her to the door, lets her close it behind her. Sound of the tap running. A minute or two later she opens the door again, bent over, leaning her weight on the handle. Hand towel she has left crumpled beside the sink, and her toothbrush, wet now, and she smells of soap. He takes her weight on his arm again. In her room, the blind pulled down, the bed unmade, clothes discarded on the floor. Slowly, carefully, she lies down, and he sits on the side of the mattress. Do you want me to bring in that basin for you? he asks. She shakes her head. I’m feeling better, she says. I think the medication is starting to work. Thank you. Quietly he rests back against the headboard, stretches his legs out. His side of the bed. Filtrate of fading daylight through the blind. Feels the warmth of her body beside him. And thinks for no reason of being with her, before. When she would wake him in the night, unable to sleep, wanting to talk, to complain, to make love. Heaviness in his limbs he remembers. Fumbling half-asleep with her nightdress. Awkward at first and then easy. Her face hot in his neck. Regrets now every night they didn’t. Drunk, or too tired, or whatever. Other things also he regrets. Kind of thing that can never be said, too much like an accusation, or just too painful. Beside him in the dark now he hears her breath catching. Soft sibilant sound of her crying, trying not to cry. As if she too has been thinking. Come here, he says. And puts his arm around her, draws her closer. Unresisting she rests her head on his chest, crying almost noiselessly. What’s wrong, it’s the pain? he asks. Gesture of her head shaking. Thick her voice answering: No, it’s alright. It’s not as bad as it was. His hand at the back of her neck, fingers in her hair. What is it, then? he asks. She just shakes her head again and says nothing. Strands of her hair light and fine between his fingers he feels and remembers feeling. Touching with his hand her head. As when she would wake him at night, wanting, and he would take her into his arms. Feel better then. Go back to sleep. I’m sorry, she murmurs aloud. He waits, and then asks: For what? His hand in her hair, his fingers caressing. Quietly she says: I don’t know. I feel I’ve done everything wrong, I’ve gone about everything in the wrong way. Heavy like sleep the weight of her head resting. That’s alright, he says. I feel that way too, all the time. And without knowing what he’s saying he asks: Do you ever think about when we were together? She seems to swallow, wet sound, weight of her head against his chest. Do you? she says. Feel his face warm, his hands. I don’t know, he answers. I find it difficult. With her fingers she’s wiping at her eyes. Mm, she says. Here now he thinks and at the same time elsewhere ten years ago with their eyes closed, her head on his chest, half-sleeping. Later, to wake, wanting again. The closeness of that, as if visible behind a thin veil, through which even a hand could pass, touching, but not. The river never the same. And he is not the same man. You know, there are a lot of feelings there, he says. I feel guilty, for not being able to help you. And on some level, to be honest, I probably feel angry with you as well. For leaving me. Just to tell you the truth.
Quietly she answers: If we had stayed together, you would have ended up hating me, Peter. And if you had left me, I would have hated you.
Sometimes I think you do anyway, he says.
Her voice brittle. Why? she asks. Do you hate me?
No, he says. I just feel like I’ve failed you. You know, I feel like I let you down, and you’re disgusted with me. I do feel that you hate me, sometimes. Yeah. This idea that it was all for my sake, that we broke up. As if I should be grateful to you. That’s hurtful, it is very hurtful. It can feel, if I’m honest, it can feel like you’re punishing me.
Still without lifting her head, hand at her face, her eyes. Maybe you should be grateful, she says. You’ve been living your life, haven’t you? The last, whatever, six or seven years, you’ve had a life. I haven’t.
You mean I’ve been out with other women, he says. That’s what you call having a life. I can’t imagine that you think I’ve been happy. How many times have I come pleading with you to take me back? The other week, when I was staying here. Trying to get you to talk to me. Or trying to touch you, or kiss you, whatever. You know, I think in a way you actually like it, watching me humiliate myself like that. And you get to reject me all over again. I think there’s a part of you that enjoys it.
Quick and shallow her breath he can feel or is it his. Okay, she says. Maybe you’re right. If you want to know the truth. Maybe I do enjoy it.
He falls still, halted, in silence. And then asks: Do you?
Well, it’s flattering, obviously, she says. It is very flattering. And maybe it’s nice to imagine, or to think about. That you still look at me in that way. I’m not made of stone. I have feelings. Maybe I do enjoy being pleaded with.
Warm he feels the weight of her body resting, her bare arm, and warm at his side, pressed against him. His eyes again closing just to feel or think of her wanting. Can I plead with you now? he asks. Without drawing away, without moving, she exhales quickly. You’re just taking pity on me, she says. His hand stirring to touch her hair. Will you let me kiss you? he says. At last she lifts her head: and why, to retreat, or just to look in his eyes, or relent after all perhaps and permit him, he doesn’t know, and without speaking again he kisses her mouth. Sense of her falling slowly still. Lying down on her side now with her head on the pillow and he lies facing. Softly her lips parting. Throb of desire he feels, his fingers in her fine soft hair. Held close to him, feeling, he thinks, yes. Hard, pressed against her. A faint indistinct sound like her breath catching he hears or thinks and idiotically he groans into her mouth, wanting. What, to hear that. Her breath, hot. And he also, rush of blood almost light-headed, touching. He shuts his eyes then. Like this, just to be with her like this, pressed close, to feel her breath at his lips. To make her feel, yes, to hear her cry out like that, it’s nice. Warm her mouth and yes familiar. To think, as he has often thought, about her mouth, kissing her, and if she. Her fingers at the back of his neck. Can I touch your mouth? he asks. Feels or hears then somehow the flutter of her eyelids opening. Oh, she says. With your hand, you mean? He tries to swallow, throat tightening. Yeah, he says. Only if you don’t mind. Looking at him now, she nods her head, tentative. He touches with the tip of his thumb her lips, soft, and damply parting. Wet of her tongue he can feel and closes again his eyes. Senses absurdly that if he moves at all, or tries to speak or look at her, he might come, just like this, exhausted, oversensitive, not even doing anything, his thumb only resting against her lower lip. And holding tightly closed his eyes he tries to breathe as normal. That’s nice, he says. Thank you. Hears and feels her trembling. Her voice hardly at all suppressed she says quietly: Would you like— I don’t know. Do you want me to touch you, maybe? Faint feeling, weakness in his limbs, and fumbling for words he answers: Jesus, yes, please. I want that, yes, thank you. At his waistband her fingertips and awkwardly he tries to help. Soft and cool her hand touching then, and she’s shyly smiling, saying tentatively: Like this? Hot prickling feeling in his scalp, the back of his neck. Ah, it feels so good, he says. Tighter the pressure of her hand and he hears himself stupidly again groaning. Hem of her t-shirt lifted and the tip of his cock under the hollow of her navel. You’re a little bit wet, she says. Tight throbbing sensation he feels inside himself, and closes his eyes again. Ah, sorry, he says. It’s just nice, it feels so nice. Unseen she goes on touching him. Sound of her voice very low and sweet saying: I’d like to taste it. Groaning again he hears himself, loud hard stuttering sound. His eyes closed, feeling on her mouth the words as well as hearing, that she thinks, wants, pressed close against him, her small narrow body, tight her hand, and her wet mouth, tasting of salt, sweet, touching, and he’s finished, saying nothing, only breathing hard. And then after all saying: Ah, I’m sorry. Opens his eyes to see her flushed, smiling, pulling back with her slim fingers the hem of her t-shirt, wet. Don’t be, she says. Meeting her eye he feels his face still burning, his forehead, his throat. With a high sacred joyful feeling, he says aloud: Oh, well. Let me get you, ah— I’m sorry.
She’s laughing, touching tenderly her face, shy. It’s alright, she says. That was nice. If I had known it would be like that— I just always thought it would be so difficult. To make you feel— I don’t know. I’m sorry.
He feels his eyes pricking, touched by her sweetness, by how easy it has been, friendly, fond, somehow even ordinary. Let’s get married, he says. Again delightedly laughing she answers: Was it that good? They look at one another, pleased, foolish, and he touches her hair. Yes, he replies. How are you feeling, is the pain still very bad? Smiling with her cheeks and throat pink. No, it’s okay, she says. The painkillers are working. And this was a nice distraction. Glancing at him quickly and away again she says: More than a distraction, thank you. Ease and lightness in his body he feels. I think it’s one of those things where I should be thanking you, he says. She finds in her bedside drawer a packet of tissues. In companionable quiet for a time they lie there, tired he thinks, and happy, inexpressibly happy, saying nothing. He asks eventually if she feels up to eating and she says maybe a slice of toast or something plain like that. I’ll go and put some on, he answers. Back in a minute. And leaning over he kisses her forehead. I love you, he says. Still smiling, still with the same shy look, she answers: I love you too.
In the kitchen, yawning, pleasantly dull of mind, he puts some bread in the toaster, finds the butter and jam in the fridge. Visits the bathroom, washes his hands. His reflection over the sink quite ordinary, his ordinary face, which he sees every day reflected in mirrors, darkened windows, the unlighted screens of devices. Appearing at times rather tired and rough, hollows under the eyes, and at others decent-looking and youthful still. Lines in his forehead though you notice now. With the overhead light especially. Hers also. To taste, she said: and a hard little after-rush of pleasure passes through him, involuntary, exhaling aloud, almost wanting again already. To feel again, to make her say more, yes. In the kitchen the toast isn’t finished yet and he takes his phone from his pocket. Two work emails, missed call from his accountant, and a text from Naomi. Blankly he taps to open.
NAOMI: im cooking lol
NAOMI: if its bad we can order in
NAOMI: what time you home?
She has attached a picture: his small green casserole dish on one of the hotplates. Disorientated feeling, as though his centre of gravity disturbed, walls shifting: like passing out, he thinks. As if he will pass out there and then, and at the thought, remembering, he sits down on a kitchen chair. The little green dish on the stovetop, what time you home. Christ, he thinks, what is he doing, what on earth. In the bath the other night, murmuring in her ear, I want you to be happy. Was he lying then: and why, for what, for what possible reason. Strong sudden impulse he feels to begin praying, already mouthing the silent words, and then frightened by himself he stops. To pray for what: forgiveness, guidance. From whom: God he barely believes in, sentimental Jesus commanding us to love one another. In over his head, fathoms over, and something has to be done. How capable he has been of holding in his mind with no apparent struggle such contradictory beliefs and feelings. The false true lover, the cynical idealist, the atheist at his prayers. Everything lethally intermixed, everything breaching its boundaries, nothing staying in its right place. She, the other, himself. Even Christine, Ivan, this married girlfriend of his. Their father: from beyond the grave. Conceptual collapse of one thing into another, all things into one. No. To answer first the simple question of where to sleep tonight. Marry me. I love you. What time you home.