I spot her on the garden wall and approach with speed and purpose
And contort my face into an uncomfortable attempt at
Nonchalance
She sees me but there is barely any sign that she does
I can feel in my throat the five words trying to claw their way out
After nearly three decades
And they push through my teeth somewhere between a whisper and a growl
‘Why don’t you love me?’
Her eyes simply widen as if this is the first time she has been in the presence of someone else’s emotion
The son shoves a cloud out the way and her eyes return to a heavy lidded ease
I move closer and she starts to pace the wall
Teasing me with her presence and potential lack there of
I hold out my hand to show I’m no threat
She approaches this time, slowly she nudges it, she even rubs her face on it, sitting down like she’s maybe getting comfortable
My brain is a whirr
Maybe this time she will come inside and we will play and talk and she’ll actually show me she enjoys my presence and she’ll become a great companion and maybe she’ll even stay a while and maybe we could coexist quite happily
But no.
She stands, and with the grace and mundanity of someone leaving the table after a meal
slinks through the gap in the fence and she is gone again
I return to the house alone. Flop down on the leather sofa, the familiar cold against my skin and am reminded I hate leather sofas and don’t understand why anyone thinks they are the epitome of comfort
My husband approaches with a concerned expression and asks
What were you saying to the neighbour’s cat?

It’ll be a sunny, crisp, winter morning
She’ll have just done her weekend deep clean
Her CD tower will be alphabetised except for crowded house which she leaves out
She will be wearing her dark jeans, light green jumper and something sparkly somewhere
She will have the patchwork blanket out she is sewing for the friend of a friends neighbours baby girl
She will have chicken biriyani on the stove
She will have picked up a new Chapstick or nail varnish for someone on her way home yesterday and it’ll be on the coffee table
The card drawer will be full
Her laptop will be open, she will have typed in her password ‘Aragorn’ then opened her emails
Singing in the rain will be on the telly
Her hair will be neatly pulled into a medium sized claw clip
She will say how hot she Is on the hour every hour
She will be on her 4th ‘machine coffee’ of the day
She will be laughing to herself at something she overheard in another room but wasn’t supposed to
Wherever she is
She will be exactly as she was and will be
And shell be waiting for me

Instagram

Rollercoasters

Horror Films

Vodka Revolution

Lace underwear

Corporate jobs

Alcohol

Missionary

Group chats

Brooding

Heels

Murder documentaries

Giving a fuck

In our first house we didn’t have a dishwasher. We would spend evenings in the cramped kitchen together talking, me with belly bulging just the wrong height so that it would get soaked from the water in the sink, which is far too full of bubbles you tell me but I like using excessive amounts of washing up liquid. Other nights it’s you frantic with excitement and the distraction of me that there would always be three things left unwashed. We would talk and laugh. Leaning or sitting high on the counter next to the kettle ready to click it on. Then time passed and the sink was needed for baked bean caked chubby face or curry filled hair, and our son would happily splash away whilst enjoying the view through the window behind him and we’d laugh and sometimes I’d play guitar and it was a perfect kind of madness

Then we moved to a house with a dishwasher

We spend more time at the table. A natural progression but susceptible to distractions when telly’s or phones or games are accessible. So we try our best to make it fun. Then another of us came along and now our mornings are madness elevated. Ill be in the kitchen at 6am making four breakfasts with our son in his high chair launching strawberries like missiles at the magnolia wall. You’ll be preparing your lunch for work. There will still be a pile of pots on the side that aren’t dishwasher safe

And our eldest son will join us and ask if he can do the washing up

And we smile

You should have been my first love

Decades spent pining for my attention

Pouring your heart out in letters I never read

Staring at me with warm wet cheeks

Too often

I couldn’t see you

I didn’t see you

I didn’t want to see you

Misdirected love

The title to a life

Its not too late

Its never too late

I hope I’m not

Too late