A complex

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?







Wherever she is 

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