Here it is.
Jon Sigurdsson: no fool like an old fool, tall fool, stooped fool.
But please. Please.
His watch shows that midnight has passed and this is tomorrow. And his image shows that he is empty, a hollowed man with gangling feet and heavy fingers.
Taptaptaptap.
Nice coat. Awful trousers. A shirt that would feel gentle if she touched it.
Taptaptaptap.
Please.
I used to think nobody waits in the way that a child waits for something good, anything good, for something to be mended.
And Jon’s weight is on his left heel as he turns, slowly. He is trying make sure that somebody catching sight of him would not see a clumsy figure, an unpalatable silhouette.
Taptaptaptap.
He is certain that his expression is unsuitable and that his mouth is ugly.
Taptaptaptap.
And there’s this noise which is not in his head — taptaptaptap —
it’s a fact and it’s coming from somewhere to his left and it sparks towards him, quick across the great, big floor — taptaptaptap — and it’s the sound of footsteps.
Oh.
It is the sound of footsteps because somebody immeasurably lovely is walking and now walking closer and now she is here.
Oh.
Meg halts beyond Jon’s reach, but not so very far beyond it.
Oh.
‘That’s …’ Jon’s voice tumbles out of him like stupid pebbles. ‘I’d … I thought …’ And his arms fall, ungainly, to his sides.
I thought I would die.
Which is melodramatic.
But really I do think that without you I may die in every sense that matters to me.
Which isn’t something I can tell you, of course it’s fucking not.
‘I thought you might take the bus.’
Oh, fuck. Well, that made her trip worth the effort.
‘I don’t like buses.’ Meg folds her arms. ‘The Tube’s warmer — at night.’
They call it small talk because it’s smaller than you should be and so it strangles in and snuffs you out.
‘Is it, I mean, is it safe, though? I mean, on the Tube at night are you safe …?’
Meg is clearly dressed for the meal they haven’t shared — for making one straightforward journey and then sitting and giving him a good impression. That she’d do such a thing, try to do such a thing, is impossibly moving.
And I’m getting a good impression, I am impressed — but I always would be, no matter what — but thank you for making the effort — thanks.
By this point, though, the hours have passed and she isn’t dishevelled, not that, but her finish has faded, the effect she must have wanted is no longer crisp. She looks weary, too.
Poor darling.
‘It’s my fault.’
‘What?’
‘I — sorry — keeping you up so late and no dinner and being on the Tube at night …’
I want her to look the way she would when everything’s fine and all right and she can relax.
Jon raises his hand to flatten his hair, or smooth it, discipline it in some manner, only then he doesn’t bother and this makes him probably appear to wave when there is no need to because she is here, absolutely here, terribly here.
Oh.
He makes fists and puts them into his overcoat pockets. He regrets this at once — it seems to put such a limit on his options, ‘Oh … But you … Because I was facing the bus stop and expecting … That’s why I didn’t see …’
Oh.
He wishes to be unconscious. He wishes to be on his knees, or curled on his side — plainly incapacitated instead of standing and being this apparently capable shape.
Oh.
And then she steps in a pace and reaches out to him and pauses, offering.
Oh.
And there is no way to signal how altered he is by this, with this — more all the time — with this baying and coursing happiness.
Oh.
And up and out of his pocket he lifts one fist and loosens it, loses it, as if this is simple and easy to do and …
Oh.
She takes his hand. ‘And when you’re on the Underground you get a better view. I think. Of the people. You can see the people more.’
Oh.
She is here, Meg is here and keeping his hand safe and this means he will not have to fly away.
He finds himself telling her, ‘That’s … very sensible.’ And he squeezes her palm and her fingers answer, squeeze him back, and this is perhaps how they’ll have to speak for at least a while, because he sees no hope in talking when he cannot speak, only make these small noises. ‘Quite the right choice, I’m sure. Good evening, I mean, good morning, I mean hello. Hello, Meg.’
He’s been waiting like a child until he can say the right thing to make her seem happy, even slightly glad, about being here and seeing him. ‘I’m cold, Meg. Sorry. I’m really cold. I—’
Oh.
And this is what makes her come to him completely, right in, until she is fitted to him, locked, makes his whole skin ask for more of her so that he nearly stumbles.
Oh.
She is alive, alight, astonishing, her head worrying at his breastbone, his shirt above his breastbone, shifting.
Oh.
And these are her shoulder blades and these are the quiet, small knuckles of her spine and this is the swoop to the small of her back and this is when she slips her arms — feels determined, feels entitled — pushes them inside his coat and inside his jacket — the way that I have to remember and couldn’t forget and she did once before, inside, inside — inside until she has caught his waist and he is so delighted that his shirt must be tender for her while her touch burns in.
Please.
They stay like this.
Please.
They stay.
Here it is.
They catch each other’s breath and mend it.
A man and a woman sit in a living room. The walls have been recently repainted in a warm shade of cream, the skirting is also immaculate in a slightly darker shade of cream. Someone has taken up the carpet and sanded the floorboards in a way which makes them look slightly rough, but also clean, scrubbed. A large rug — obviously new — glimmers with oriental patterns in dark blues and reds at the foot of the sofa. These efforts at refurbishment make the furniture — a nondecript bureau, two armchairs, a low table, a bookcase, that leather sofa near the rug — they make the furniture look both slightly tired and slightly relieved. Each item has the air of an object which feels that everything may be all right from hereon in.
It is late, past midnight.
The tall, red curtains have been drawn and the room’s only light spills from a small lamp — perhaps a family favourite, perhaps a lucky find from some market — this dusky-pink glass shade suspended from a polished brass stand. Art deco.
It is tomorrow.
But neither the woman, nor the man has slept — not in almost twenty-four hours — and so they are both, in a way, insisting that it should still be yesterday.