This is a short story I wrote earlier this year. I submitted it to a competition, despite not really liking it (I think it’s too mawkish and it makes me feel slightly itchy) because, for a few minutes, being a little self-important and knowing someone I had never met was going to read it made me feel like a real writer.
I didn’t win.
___
It’s only now, staring at the cheap transparent-brown plastic snaking out of the crook of my arm, twisting back on itself in a wide loop, plugging in to the featureless white box, that I start to wonder if this will hurt. The initial injection wasn’t exactly comfortable, and hooking the tube up tugged and pulled my skin in a numb, unpleasant way, but none of it has been painful. I start to wonder if pharmacies could to sell it if it could cause harm. The packaging makes clear that it’s categorically not a medical procedure; it can’t be, because medical procedures don’t happen on Wednesday evenings at my kitchen breakfast bar.
Thomas reads my mind, in the way I found endearing when our relationship was young and it felt less like condescension than understanding. “It won’t hurt.”
“Not physically” I say, more curt than necessary or intended. I don’t meet his eyes.
He sighs impatiently. “Not at all. Once it’s done, you won’t even care that it happened.”
“I care now.”
A protracted silence follows. I pick up the instructions again. They are clear, dispassionate, everything love isn’t. They feel deeply unsuited for the task at hand. I read through sinister, vaguely scientific jargon – “anterior elbow”, “drainage interface”, “transfer box”. That last refers to that glossy white box between us, our last remaining connection. There’s then a thorough summary of the diodes and beeps the box might use to signal something’s gone awry, and pictorial diagrams of steps we should take to correct them. Then, a clumsily translated disclaimer. “Please note: this system is designed to be operate without causing any pain for the users. If you are in pain, stop operation at once.” My jaw clenches involuntarily. I wish I could.
——
“You’ve seen everyone for now”.
We met on an app. I’d been stuck for a while, downloading and deleting, feeling momentarily brave then retreating back into the closet over and over again. I’d chat to people for a couple of hours. They’d ask when I was free. I’d panic and vanish. Only after I came out could I engage with any enthusiasm.
Nothing happened. A couple of promising back-and-forths lasted just an afternoon. I got frustrated at guys who wouldn’t let a message lie unanswered. I was tired of introducing myself, of the same opening salvoes and clunky jokes, tired of trying to figure out if a day without messages was a sign of a busy life or rejection. I felt every unreciprocated “like” keenly, and sometimes the rejection floored me. I’d lie on top of my bed, turgid with self-pity.
So passed summer. The days grew short and greens turned golden, and the first autumn frost creeped in. I wandered through the park one Sunday afternoon, both hands wrapped around a flat white for warmth. My phone buzzed, and I awkwardly fished it out of my pocket with clumsy fingers. A thin white banner in the centre of the screen announced, “Thomas likes you! Match to continue the conversation.”
——
The back of the box shows testimonials from happy customers. Hayley has used this for her last three break-ups. Leon used it when his marriage ended, bringing an end to months of heartache. I wonder if any of them are real. I don’t want to be like them, don’t want our relationship – the relationship we had – to amount to little more than a five-star review. It means more than theirs did. It has to.
Across from me, Thomas studies his copy of the instructions to avoid any more uncomfortable talk. He has explained dozens of times how this is going to work. He has answered every question I have, instantly, confidently. He has done his research. He has looked forward to today. He has convinced me to do this. I know he doesn’t need instructions anymore, but I also know that the only thing he needs less is any more discussion.
Our silence is caustic. It used to be comfortable. I stare at him, noting each detail of the face I’ll soon feel so little for. Thomas senses it and looks up, smiles sadly. That smile was warm once, but now it doesn’t reach his eyes. A great lump forms in my throat. My vision blurs. I look away.
This would be a lot easier if I hated him, but I love him so much. Even now, as he’s hurting me, I love him. It’s like I’m behind him in traffic, getting hints of him in his rearview. We can’t gain any ground on one another. Worse still, he loves me too, but we can’t go on together. He sees a future in which he is well again, and I’m not in it. So I can’t be.
——
He wrapped his arm around my waist and pulled me in. The kiss tasted of gin, and the rowdy hum of the pub was far distant. We pulled away from each other, but I was caught up in the swell of his green eyes a little longer. His cheeks dimpled with his gorgeous smile. “I love you”, I whispered, almost mouthed, so that only he could hear it.
“Love you too.” He squeezed my waist, and turned back to the conversation we’d momentarily left behind.
“And then we started watching his new one, but Ciara didn’t like it.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t like it, I -”
“You did!”
“No, I said that it was the sort of thing I’d want to watch when I was more awake.”
“Oh, sorry, so Ciara thought it was boring.”
“That’s not -”
Thomas’ flatmate, Ciara, and her boyfriend, Dylan, had been dating for a few months, and Thomas and I were absolutely sure they were not going to last. At a glance they seemed well-matched, but the more we got to know Dylan, the more we grew to understand that he was… a bit of a dick. Never anything massively objectionable – no insults or tantrums, no cruelty or anger, no real inciting incident to point to. He just had a way about him – a bit of a dick and, worse, the complete inability to understand when he was being a bit of a dick. Like now, as he explained to Ciara how she felt about whatever movie it was they’d apparently disagreed on. Neither of them seemed to notice that we’d only just rejoined the conversation.
“Anyway,” Thomas interrupted, “whenever you do watch it, I’m sure you’ll really like it. The dialogue is really clever.”
“Mmmm”, Dylan said. “Did you both go see it?” Ciara got up and squeezed past him, sighing noticeably as she left.
“Oh, I don’t even know what we’re talking about”, I said. Thomas named some director I’d never heard of, then said:
“I think you’d really like it. Do you want to go and see it? I want to watch it again to see what I didn’t pick up on first time, it’s one of those films.”
“Yeah, definitely”, I said, flashing a warm grin. I rubbed his knee affectionately. Even now, six months in, my heart beat a little faster when he asked me out on a date.
Dylan stood up and took orders for the next round. When Thomas tried to suggest he wait for Ciara to get back, Dylan waved a hand and said something about her always wanting the same thing, before leaving Thomas and I alone at the table.
“If we ever end up like that”, Thomas whispered in my ear, “let’s agree to just call it.” I laughed, squeezing his hand.
Suddenly, with the intensity reserved for our most serious conversations, he met my eyes and said: “I wanted to talk to you about something actually”. I started, muscles tensing, chest tightening. He must have felt it, because he quickly added “it’s a good thing, don’t worry, or, well, it’s not bad, but…” He looked genuinely nervous. That didn’t help.
“How – and it’s absolutely fine if you think it’s too much or to soon or… my parents are through next Saturday, do you maybe fancy meeting them?”
The bar might as well have been empty. The city too. I’d never smiled so widely before, smiled so widely it actually hurt my face. I grabbed a handful of his t-shirt and pulled him in, kissing him ferociously. Suddenly, the thrill of being asked to the cinema was nothing at all.
——
“Alright, so” he begins, not looking at me, “step one.” He doesn’t really read out each step, just sort of mumbles something that vaguely takes the shape of each step, then finishes “yeah, I think that should be everything. I think we’re ready.” He’s still not looking at me.
A grunt is as much as I manage.
“Are you ready?” he asks.
“I guess”. I shrug, glumly.
His patience snaps. Now he looks my way. “Why are you being like this?”
“Why?” Wide-eyed.
“Yeah, why are you making this ten times harder than it needs to be?”
“I am making it as hard as it should be, Tommy. This is hard, I am finding this very fucking hard.” As much as I wish I could keep my anger in, we’re past the event horizon of this fight and it’s all drawn inexorably out of me.
“And I’m not?”
“Well, you certainly seem keen to get going.”
“Because it’s so hard!” he shouts. “I’m not having any more fun than you, I promise, but dragging this out isn’t going to make life any easier. The sooner we start, the sooner we both feel better. But we can’t start, or at least I feel like we can’t start, because you’re sitting there with a face like fucking thunder.”
“I’m sad!” I roar that last word, scream it at him. Maybe the only time I’ve ever screamed at him. As it hangs in the air, I’m almost embarrassed by how childish I sound. At the same time though, it captures everything I want to say. “I’m sad, and you’re making me sad, and you’re just sitting there like you’re… like you’re totally…” Lamely I scramble for something better. “..unperturbed”, I say with jaw-jutting, staccato defiance.
That horrible silence takes back the space between us. Here’s the anger that might at last let me hate him.
——
My head was resting on his bare chest and I was crying. He had his arm wrapped round me. He stroked my shoulder with his thumb, softly shushing me and kissing my forehead. I had been like this for 10 minutes.
“I’m sorry” I eventually managed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to spoil our night.”
“You didn’t spoil our night, don’t worry about that” he said, almost impossibly patient. “Do you feel better for having talked about it?”
My nods, punctuated by snotty sniffles, were unconvincing. “Yeah, I’ll be okay. I think I just need to sleep. But don’t feel like you need to go to bed as well, it’s still early.” He went to brush his teeth, and by the time he came back my light was out. He climbed gently back into bed and moved to my side of the mattress, and hugged me softly.
“Sorry again”, I murmured.
“No sorries.”
“Okay. Sorry.” I could hear his smile. “I didn’t mean to… er, I didn’t mean to get so emotional about it. And it was good to talk about it, but sometimes I just feel really… broken, I suppose. Like I’m… I don’t know, I just feel unlovable.”
We lay in the dark. A moped tore past the apartment and filled the room with the gnatty grumble of its two-stroke engine. As it faded into the distance, a noisy procession of drunken holidaymakers shambled slowly past, talking loudly in German. Thomas tightened his grip on my midriff, then said “well, I love you. And you’ll just have to deal with it.”
That did put a smile on my face. “Try my best” I said, and kissed his hand.
“Sometimes”, he said, “I wish I could make you love yourself as much as I love you.”
——
It is impossible to imagine anything hurting more than this moment. Two people who love each other, resolving not to. But if this is my last moment of loving him, I decide not to spend it hating him. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, clenching my fist to still my trembling hand. “I’m sorry. I’m just -”
He reaches out and gently squeezes my hand. “I don’t want to make you sad.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I know.”
“But I need this. And I know you don’t agree, but I think we both need this.”
He squeezes again and gives me one last smile. I search his eyes and see them brim with fondness and regret. I nod.
Thomas presses the big grey button on the box, and it starts to groan and rumble as something within it spins up. The tube in my arm taughtens and a bizarre pressure radiates upward, into my shoulder. There’s a numb tugging sensation, deep in my thorax, like some organ is being squeezed and pulled, squashed and emptied. The noise from the box becomes more pulsatile, like the stop-start of a printer. The pressure slowly builds. I stare at the tube, still empty but twitching rhythmically. Thomas closes his eyes and breathes slowly.
His heavy breaths and the rhythmic growl of the machinery are in constant counterpoint for a few minutes. I’m relieved to find that it doesn’t hurt, but neither is it particularly pleasant. Thinking about it makes me slightly nauseous, so instead I try to focus on Thomas, the things I will miss about him; his thick hair in my hands, the definite edge of his jaw, the swell of his chest, his gentleness and courage, his care and his ferocity, and the depth, the intensity, the safety of his love, the warmth of it.
A mild twinge in my arm, where the tube pierces the skin, steals back my attention. A viscous amber nectar starts to crawl down the tube toward the transfer box. Opposite, the same happens to Thomas, although the liquid from his arm is lighter in colour, more yellow, lambent. Like daylight scattered by waves, sun glitter, ripples of light flash across both of us, across the room. A slight smile, heavy with genuine pleasure, plays across Thomas’s face as he opens his eyes to watch this happen. Already this wounds me less than it might have just minutes ago.
I can feel it working in real time. The face that has meant so much to me for two years no longer seems so much like a future. He doesn’t look so much like our home in the country anymore, or the children we’d have, the wedding, the holidays we’d go on, the Sunday morning brunches or the lazy mornings in bed, the joint bank account, the trips back home, the stop-off in the beer garden on the walk back home, the games nights, the quiet nights, the long nights, the early nights. He is still handsome. His face is still kind. But drop by drop, I see a man. There are lots of those. Could this one ever have meant anything to me?
When the last of the honey-like liquid has wended its lazy path to the transfer box, the box spools up, like something inside is spinning fast, and gently trembles for thirty seconds. Thomas smiles my way again, but this time it’s just a thin-lipped acknowledgement, no warmth at all. I return it in kind.
The noise resumes. Something starts to snake its way back up the tube. In mine, a yellowish liquid. In his, the darker orange. The sensation is different – something’s being given. I’m filled to the brim. Though much is taken, much abides.
A short, sharp tone signals that it’s finished. Getting the needle and tube out of my arm is a little unpleasant – I can feel it inside me, taut against my skin – but it slides out fairly quickly and with a minimum of blood. Thomas and I turn to face one another, standing there in an awkward silence.
“You were right”.” I smile. “I don’t care.”
He grins. Still handsome. “Thanks for trusting me.”
“Yeah.”
The silence is a little awkward, but nothing like it was. I hold out my hand and he takes it, shakes it. I walk him to the front door, where there’s a collection of bags-for-life full of everything of his I could find in the flat – pants, socks, medication, deodorant, shower gel, books, lamps. Clean break. “You have anything nice planned for the rest of the week?” I ask without any real interest.
“Not much. I’ve told Ciara I’ll meet her and Dylan tomorrow for a couple of drinks. Then I’m hoping to have a quiet Friday.”
“Nice”. He struggles a bit to get all his bags in hand, but once he does I open the door for him. “Well, goodbye.”
“Yeah.”
And then I’m alone. Thomas takes my feelings with him. I still remember. Remember our first date, our first kiss. Our first “I love you”. And I remember all our lasts as well. Firsts and lasts weigh about the same now.
I pass the hallway mirror and double-take at my reflection. Pale, but for the dark bags under the eyes. Messy, short hair, and a pathetic attempt at a beard. It’s not my strongest look. But now, looking at that face, looking at my body, I think for the first time in a long time that someone could love me.
Later, I sort the packaging into recyclables and non-recyclables. The sharps go in their own little disposal bag. As I’m breaking down the box the kit came in I spot, in tiny little print below the testimonials, a little call-to-action. “Please share your experience to be in with a chance to appear on our packagings.” There’s an email address. For the briefest moment, I hesitate.
Matthew Weldon's Dangerous Thoughts 