Talk to me

He was late again. The third time this week. Usually he was home by 9. She knew there was some trouble at work, from the calls that finished late at night and started again, early in the morning. He hadn’t shared details with her and it was not in her nature to ask. She mostly observed and gleaned her facts from what she heard and read and saw. It was understood that work matters were private and she had accepted it.

She checked the map again. The traffic was horrible – the western expressway was fully red. If he took the turn from the statue of silent martyrs, maybe he’d save 5 minutes. But then he never took directions well and he’d probably turn off the navigation rather than listen to the GPS.

They had met around 10 years ago, when he was just starting out at the firm. He used to be freer then, striking silly poses and taking pictures often. He had often written poetry too, short sentences and freeform couplets, interspersed with extracts from Neruda. They had gone hiking and gone to the beaches. She remembered when they had gone to Koh Khram Yai, just a backpack between them and spent hours walking the trails, barefoot in the sand and leaping across the rocks. It was better than Phuket certainly, which only offered crowds and plastic tables and cheap beer. They had planned the trip for weeks, after his first bonus had come in, she offering suggestions and then helping him finalize the itinerary. It was good that she was so patient, because he changed his mind half a dozen times even after the tickets had been booked. She thought, well, she knew that she understood him better than anyone else, certainly better than his parents who hardly kept in touch and the sister who was busy with two kids these days. With work taking up more and more of his time, it fell to her to keep him somewhat social, dragging him out for movies and shopping on the weekend and reminding him to call his friends.

The bell rang – it was him. She opened the door and let him in.

“Long day today.”

“Yes, it was. Somedays are just too long you know.” He trailed off, looking as if he had surprised himself by speaking.

“Why don’t you freshen up? I can order from the new Italian place that has opened – they should deliver within half an hour.”

“Could you do it please? That would be wonderful. Nothing much. A pasta or a salad. Maybe a pasta. Thanks.” He was being coldly formal again – retreating from the moment. Reminding himself. She didn’t let the hurt show.

She went through the day’s news while waiting for the food to arrive. He was not political really, but he liked to be in touch. Banking was such a weird sector, taking cues from everything and nothing, arbitrary sentiments propping up poor fundamentals. But he’d managed to do well for himself, his personal investments were up 8% since the last quarter. She didn’t have much use for money herself, but she knew that it was a point of almost painful pride for him. He needed to prove himself continuously and it made him blunt and crude sometimes, but she never doubted his essential goodness. He took pride in his work, just like she did.

The delivery chute chimed, informing her that the takeaway had been delivered. She went through the refrigerator and placed an order for some yogurt and some greens. He liked to cook sometimes but when he did, he made it a point to do most of the shopping himself, especially the protein. She added a few items to the weekend shopping list she maintained. He came out of the shower, trailing steam. She inched up the thermostat a few degrees, didn’t want him catching a cold.

He served himself.

She tried to make small talk while he had his dinner.

“Did you take a look at the election results? Nobody really expected this.”

“A letter came from Nat Geo today. Do you want to renew the subscription?”

She tried again.

“Don’t forget to call Pam tomorrow. It’s their anniversary.”

“Sure, I will. Remind me again tomorrow though. And also, get some flowers delivered – and a box of those almond chocolates – she used to love those.”

“Okay. Bet she’d like that.”

“By the way, did any mail come through on my tax refunds? They should have come by now.”

“Well, your accountant sent a mail saying he’d confirm the numbers. So I assume it has come through. I did a quick check myself, it seems to be all right.”

“Okay.”

“Do you want to catch a movie tonight? You haven’t watched the latest Deadpool movie and its streaming on Netflix now. It’s got a decent rating as well, over eight on IMDB.”

“How long is it?”

She beamed.

“Just over two hours. And there is some popcorn ready to microwave as well.”

“A perfect plan then.”

They watched the movie on the couch, with the lights turned low, the bowl of popcorn by his side. She mainly watched him, less than half her attention on the movie. He looked quite mysterious in the half light of the screen, his profile defined like in a black and white movie or like a Frank Miller panel. She hadn’t cared at all for comics earlier, but his enthusiasm had piqued her interest and now she could rattle off the latest Spawn plotline and was tantalizingly close to finishing a Logan continuity timeline. Well, she did have a lot of spare time. While he was busy with the film, she did her usual check round the flat for the night.

The movie finished and they sat through the post credit scene. Not bothering to turn on the lights, he got up and stretched. He had lost a bit of weight and he was quite thin now. She waited, patiently, for a word or a sign.

“Good night, Miho. Set an alarm for 6 tomorrow and then turn off for the night.”

“Very well, Sam. Good night.”
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Not original certainly. But I hope it flatters.

I thought about swapping the genders - and then I decided that I just wanted to tell the story first and then worry about that later. And now I don't want to change it.