My mind skips back to the most recent encounter with T on Friday.
There had been a festive feel to that Friday night: My first pay was burning a hole into my bank account, schools had broken for two weeks, releasing hordes of over excited youngsters into parks, and cafés, I had decided to order a take-away dinner, a rare and wonderous treat here in France. This was also meant to give me more time to
throw random items of clothing into a suitcase pack for Easter weekend at my parents’ near Paris.
T was due to finish work early to see the children, but got held up by a patient who decided to bleed and threaten to die (the cheek of those patients, I tell you). As he sounded a bit down on the phone, I reflexively offered a few words of comfort.
This must have been a mistake: He dismissed them, and was clearly on the light-years side of distant when he finally arrived. We had nothing to say to each other, worse, it was as if nothing had ever existed between us. Seeing our daughter, the walking, babbling testament to the fact that we once were so close and committed to each other felt almost incongruous.
Tonight, the trees shiver in my parents’ garden, a gust of wind carries the smell of wet earth and the distant rumble of thunder. The first drops of rain splatter noisily around me.