At the weekend, pickings are slim, and it is the frame of mind you put yourself in to take in the message, as much as the contents of the message. I could be worried, fretful, only one message, there have been weekends where he sent so much more, every time she left the room it must have been, so why only one now; but I choose to be calm, choose to interpret it as him being busy, being able to send a message to let me know he still thinks of me, but being busy, compartmentalised.

I…

Silence.

Waiting.

Patience, it is after all the weekend, where he immerses himself in that other life. Patience, this time is a deeper betrayal for him, one more line crossed, and there is nothing to do but be there to let him know that some part, our part, of his life is running smoothly, a small oasis he can dip into like a warm…

and so it starts, the scratching at oneself, picking, peeling the skin, forcing the imperfections away to new pink under my gel-hardened fingernails

and yes, he did get in touch as soon as he could, and it is only my fault that I was not awake, not waiting devotedly for him to kick my heartbeat back into action, my fault that I was not there to pick up and pick myself up.…

The half finished bottle of champagne rattles as the fridge door is opened, and my tired eyes, pushed in at the corners, take in the array of empty wine bottles on the kitchen worktop. 

You have been unreachable all day, since we kissed each other goodbye, three or four times in the underground car park this morning, and even though I know it is…

I didn't notice so much today, not because there was nothing to notice, but because my head was away across a quarter of the world, ninety degrees sliding around the surface of the earth, where you were, wondering what you were doing. More accurately, I was wondering whether you were dreaming about me, since you had another four hours until your normal waking time, and so I was not paying attention…