Something I put together for the Creative Writing Society at university after months of writers' block.

Pieces

“There’s something you’re not telling me.” There are too many things he’s not telling her. More than she knows. More than he knows, standing there watching her brush her hair in the bathroom mirror.

“I’m thinking of getting it cut,” she says. There is a pause. He realises that he is meant to speak.
“That would be nice,” he replies. But he doesn’t think it would be, not really. Still, he agrees, just in case she is annoyed if he doesn’t. Just in case, like the bottle of cough syrup she always leaves out on the dresser in the bedroom, just in case. Always just in case.

“I wish it wasn’t raining.” She’s never liked the rain. He does. He likes to stand outside in it and feel it run down his cheeks like the tears he hasn’t shed since he was twelve years old. But she doesn’t. She is better in the sunshine, because she is still allowed to have her tears on the outside. He admits that he likes her in the sun. It makes her tears glitter like crystal before they dry.

“I wanted to go out.” He didn’t. He never does. Going out is never as simple as it sounds. There is always something waiting to trip you up. Perhaps the restaurant is too busy, or you spill wine or gravy on the table cloth and the waiters look at you and sigh when they think you aren’t looking because they know they’ll have to change it now and why did you have to make such a mess? Are you a child? And it’s always restaurants. She never wants to go out to the park, or wander down the footpath in the woods. She never wants to go to the beach. She never wants to go out. She wants to go in, but only if in is somewhere other than the in where she is now.

“I guess I’ll call for take-out,” she sighs. He nods and resigns himself to her choice. He never chooses what they eat. If he did, he would want her to actually make something for once. He used to like watching her in the kitchen, beautiful with steam making her hair slightly frizzy at the ends and the heat making her cheeks glow red. But she doesn’t cook so much anymore. Now it’s a chore and they have meals from packets and tins and fresh-from-frozen, but take-out is always easier. It’s always Chinese.

“Nights like this are kind of depressing.” Are they? He’s always liked nights like this, just spending time. Time is something so slippery. There’s never enough yet somehow there can be too much. And he’s not good at time. He remembers that she was angry tonight when he came home late. He hadn’t told her that he had been looking for roses for her even though they were out of season. And when he found them, he got home and remembered at the door that she didn’t like roses. He should have gotten lilies instead. He hopes she won’t see the roses lying in the bin tomorrow.

“Let’s just watch a movie,” he says. And she agrees. And somehow it turns out to be a good night despite the rain and the Chinese and the roses that should have been lilies and the fact that she’s going to cut her hair short because he can’t tell her that he likes it long. It’s still good. It’s always still good.

But the cough syrup’s still sitting on the dresser in the bedroom, just in case. Always just in case.