Jack Wildern is from the UK. He writes short fiction and lives in Hampshire with his wife and two children.
Moving on
She says ‘Thank you for cooking.’ Not, ‘thank you for dinner,’ because that would imply, we were meeting socially. This isn’t social, it’s an argument wrapped into six tortillas. Two for her. Four for me.
‘Did you get the email from my solicitor?’
‘No.’ I did actually but I’m being a twat on account that I’ve heard she’s fucking someone else.
‘Well he sent it to you yesterday.’
‘I’ll be sure to keep an eye on my inbox.’ She looks at me like I had spat in her fajitas. I’ve got the laptop open on the table and she knows damn well Yahoo is running in the background.
‘So, I made a list,’ I say through a mouthful of Old El Paso. She raises an eyebrow that is way more shaped than it was when we were together.
‘A list?’
‘Yeah. Well I thought now the house was sorted we should look at what’s in it.’ She takes a deep breath and exhales through her nose. Her eyes widen just a touch. She’s like a small angry bull but with perfect microblading.
‘We’ve been through this.’
‘No. You’ve been through it in your own head. Half of the shit in that place is mine.’
To confirm the fact, I turn the laptop around. A crappy spreadsheet glares on the screen turning the skin on her face a pale green. Columns with shit like, ‘cushions in spare room’ and ‘Shawshank on Blu-ray’, twitch left to right in her pupils.
‘This is a joke, right?’
I shrug my shoulders and stuff the second fajita down my throat. She hasn’t touched hers. Can’t say I blame her. I always make them too spicy.
‘I just thought it was the fairest way,’ I grab the sriracha sauce and send a couple of good thick squirts into a cavern of over spiced chicken. I want to make this one a proper bad boy. A real gut burner.
‘Fairest way?’ She slams the lid of the laptop down and pushes her chair screeching across the lino. I wonder if it will leave a mark. ‘You wanker.’
‘Now wait a second-’
‘How dare you. Is this why you asked me here?’
I’m acutely aware that my answer will define the rest of the evening. I contemplate saying something like no babe it’s because I miss you. Then again, she’s already pissed off over the email and the shitty dinner so-
‘Well… yes.’
Have you ever seen pure rage? It’s white of knuckle and still as stone. If you look closely it trembles ever so slightly.
‘What the fuck,’ she screams.
One of the two dinner plates I own splits in half as it hits the wall behind me. The guts of my Mexican compadres explode across a magnolia surface which I doubt is cloth friendly.
‘I just thought I could take the PS4 and the forty-six inch.’
‘The PS? You get nothing.’
‘That’s hardly fair-’
‘Then you shouldn’t have had sex with a nineteen-year old.’
It was a hand-job and she was twenty-two. But we believe what we want to believe.
‘Well what are you going to do with it?’
She’s about to go completely mental when her phone rings. The new bf. Has to be.
‘Hi.’
Her voice is suddenly like velvet. Definitely the new bf. I get up and start peeling bits of onion and red pepper from the wall, vaguely aware of my name being slandered in the background.
‘Ok. Yes please, I may need some wine first.’ She giggles and I feel a hot swell of tears behind my eyes. I push them away; I’ve always been good at that. She hangs up and watches me stack the broken porcelain on the work top.
‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. You can have the PS4.’
I should be grateful. It’s more than I deserve. But then again, I liked that fucking plate.
‘It’s ok. Give it to your new boyfriend.’
I’m expecting an onslaught. I’m wondering how much damage she could do with a bread knife. Instead I get a look. It’s something like how you might stare at a dying dog that’s been in the family for years but won’t stop pissing itself. There’s sadness but it’s mainly frustration.
Her phone rings again three times and goes silent. ‘I’ve got to go.’
‘Ok.’
‘Here.’ She opens her bag. I get a waft of perfume as the content of her life gets tossed about. All of a sudden, she’s in my bathroom for the first time. Bottled flowers and makeup overpowering the gym bag deodorant of my room. ‘You’ll need this. I had the locks changed.’ She puts a little silver key on the table. ‘Let yourself in. Take the PS4 and the bloody tv. But do us both a favour and check your junk mail. Sign the paperwork.’
She turns and heads for the door. I can hear her footsteps on the stairwell as I make my way to the window.
Ever seen pathetic? It’s a bloke in his mid-thirties wearing pyjama bottoms and watching the love of his life disappear. If you look closely it even trembles.
My heart sinks as she emerges and runs into the arms of a stubbled face. He’s all muscles. I can see his triceps through his shirt. I can feel my own puffy gut starting to creep out towards my slippers.
He holds the door of his car open and she gets in. I watch it pull away, adjacent to the promenade and the fairy lights that sway green, blue and red between the lamp posts.