The Boy’s Duvet
He should have sent the text first before the photograph because now he wasn’t sure what to write. The buttons seemed too small, his thumbs too fat, he should really have drafted it first, and now it was as if he’d knocked on her door then run away.
What did he want to say? There wouldn’t be space in a text but at some point he wanted to tell her about his evening, eating dinner in front of Graham’s TV, their plates on matching trays with cushioned bottoms, par-boiled potatoes, marrowfat peas like gallstones, the chicken an anatomy lesson, an impression underlined by the surgical glare of the big light overhead. Microwaving, it seemed, was the process whereby a real chicken was rubberised, the skin pale and bobbled, the flesh grey and weeping some sort of white sap. ‘My wife does most of the cooking as you can probably tell,’ Graham had said, and Michael had done his best, really he had, his stomach engaged in a battle between hunger and nausea. On a low brown leather sofa, they’d drunk beer from cans poured into Middlesbrough FC-themed tankards and watched Antiques Roadshow, Graham assessing each item as either old tat or worth a few bob, and while he was a decent man and warm company, it was a meal that would haunt Michael until his dying day. For pudding they’d eaten strawberry yoghurts out of the pots, then stood at the sink by the kitchen window, Graham washing, Michael drying, looking out into the darkness as he was quizzed about his life. The game was to answer truthfully but with the bare minimum of detail.
‘Married?’
‘We’re getting divorced.’
‘No kids?’
‘No.’
‘Well, that makes it easier.’
‘So they say.’
‘Got to move on, haven’t you? Are you courting?’ said Graham, nudging him and Michael had smiled. ‘What?’
‘I’ve not heard it called that for a while,’ said Michael. ‘I was, I think, in a way.’
‘Surely you’d know.’
He laughed. ‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you?’
‘And where’s she now?’
‘Oh, back in London.’
‘Well, you should go down, get on with it. Good-looking fella like you.’
Michael frowned and changed the subject, talking instead about Graham’s family, the minicab game, his wife, his son’s travels with the Navy, how he missed them both when they weren’t around, eyes fixed on the window throughout as if he hoped to see them stepping out of the rain. Had his own parents felt his absence this intently when he’d left home? It had never crossed his mind and he resolved to visit them as soon as he got back, tell them in person, talk honestly. He’d said no to a bedtime milky coffee and Match of the Day, went upstairs and lay on the bed, phone in hand.
Finally, he wrote: This is the view from my window on the Moors. It is raining! Hope you got back safe. Needless to say I feel bad about our goodbye. Not sure why I didn’t tell you I was meeting Nat. It was rude and I apologise. She is well but I am going to try and move on. Two more days to go then I head home Tuesday night. It has been an ‘experience’ but all the best bits were with you. I am sorry you left but understand. I am fool. Hope you are well and that I might see you again some time, indoors or out.
He took a deep breath, pressed send, at the same time noticing the error. ‘I am fool’, as if he was the essence of Fool. She would notice too, that was her job, but would think he had a point. Still the message felt unfinished, as if he was loitering in a doorway. Say what you mean. He wrote:
I miss you now
Thought and wrote again:
PS Never microwave a chicken.
He washed his face, brushed his teeth, checked his phone. He climbed under the Middlesbrough FC duvet, which was clean but still had a young man’s muskiness; he imagined it would never quite leave. Outside, rain rattled against the window like handfuls of gravel. Two more long days. He should sleep but his phone kept him awake past twelve and one and two a.m. despite, because of, not making any noise at all.