When had her feelings changed? When had the lines between repulsion and adoration switched? Perhaps it was the time he had brought in her washing from the rain. A lick of wet sheet stuck against his chin. She began to lend him sugar, which they both knew he didn’t take. Her clothes became lower and lacier. How she loved to crack open the bag for him, scatter sweet crystals, making the worktop glimmer.
“I don’t suppose you’ve any milk?” Her fingers traced letters across the table. She was yet to realise that men are no good with codes.
The 7.05 was behind schedule, he would be late for work. All the jam pastries would have long gone. Inside his briefcase, the sandwich she had made him was slowly excreting egg mayonnaise across paperwork, like the rising damp in his flat. She had persuaded him to move upstairs with her. Said his flat had a funny smell. Neither of them bought sugar anymore.
He once used to lie in bed, tracing the curved outline of her body through ceiling, imagined curling his arm around her waist. Now she slept pressed against him. Such sharp elbows.
She enjoyed the mechanics of his body, although their lovemaking became part of a larger routine. He would list train times to stop himself getting too excited. The first time had been a shock, but now she knew the anticipation of the 12.14 from Brighton, and the illicit thrill of the 9.28 to King’s Cross. She prayed it would be calling at Audley End.
Under the mattress she had found his train spotting notebooks. She tried to suggest joining him, but couldn’t find the words. They had both stared at her left hand, desperately drawing patterns into the sheet.
She started to spend time in chat rooms for women who were alienated from their partners. Met one woman with a magician fiancé who performed card tricks in bed.
He would slip out, with his binoculars, the door would click shut behind him. She averaged twelve cups of tea a day; it was that or gin. He began to complain of her bony hips against his body. The sex stopped.
She sat upright in bed one night, when he was out watching night trains in London. She gripped the sheet in the dark, and made a decision.
It was their third Christmas together; third stuffed chicken (she hated turkey), third tree shedding needles, third presents. She felt sick as she handed it to him, couldn’t look at him open it. She stared out of the window, at pigeons huddled on roof tops. The man in the shop had had awful teeth, but told her these were the latest model, that spotters always needed a light pair with a shorter strap than most. The bag even had a pocket for his notebook.
She felt his breath warm against her cheek, his arm curl around her waist.
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