Perspective is key. But sometimes we don’t need to unlock the door.
Autumn arrives with its confused mixture of pumpkin spice, warm orange leaves and cold, wet mornings. There’s a numbness in the wind, dulled from the absence of fresh flowers and sunbaked dunes. Rain spits at us on our way home. Who do you think you are, it says, sensing our pride, our joy, our happiness. I wipe my eyes, blow my nose and tighten my hood.
“Mother Nature noticed us having a good time and decided we’ve had enough,” I say, but he can’t hear me. In this weather, words are as useless as a pair of shorts. All I can hear is the gusting wind and the tiptap of rain landing on the fabric by my ears. He turns and smiles. It’s a smile that says, this is shit, but we’ll be home soon. I return the sentiment, but deep down, I’m not smiling. Ever since I was young, I’ve turned celebrations into pity parties. I’m in the middle of one now, and it’s a blast. I’m playing pass the parcel in my head; the only surprises hidden under layers of wrapping paper are anxiety, self-loathing and shame. The rain picks up a little, turning hard and solid. Hail. We are a few streets away, and I run, saturating my socks with heavy steps. He’s following, smiling like this is all a game.
“Put the kettle on then,” he says once the door clicks into place.
“You put it on. I’m having a bath.”
“Whatever you say, maestro.” He’s always been more excited than me, more optimistic. It’s the type of confidence you can have when you’re not the one sticking your neck out.
“Don’t call me that,” I say, trying to leave my pity in the rain.
“Sorry, is genius better? Or artist?” He guesses, and I roll my eyes, climbing the stairs, leaving a trail of rain and hail stones behind me.
“What tea do you want?” He calls after me. My jeans are already around my ankles, my hoodie hangs over the door, and I’m leaving wet footprints on the tiled floor. There’s a draught stroking my bare skin, turning it to scales.
“Coffee, please. A glass of wine and some food,” I shout, yanking my dressing gown off its hook. Even without water, the bath is deep and inviting. The floor’s warm, and there’s a wood-wick candle crackling in the corner, casting flickering shadows against the wall. These are the moments when I’m glad we spent the extra pennies. I’m watching the rain fall outside through the square window opposite the bath. It’s funny how a piece of glass, just an inch thick, can change your mood so dramatically. Warm water is pouring behind me, I can feel the steam crawling up my neck. Downstairs, the coffee machine’s humming, and there’s a spitting of something bathing in oil. It’s bacon, I think, sniffing the air.
There’s a book resting on a stool to one side of the bath. The Book Thief. I’ve only made it halfway, but even that much use has spoiled the pages. They’re wavey now instead of straight. Corrugated by steam and damp fingers. It feels good in my hands; books always do. It’s one of the reasons I wanted to write- I want to write. As a little girl, I picked up books and held them, imagining it was my name written beneath the title. I’m not sure what it is specifically; maybe it’s the weight, the smell, or perhaps it’s the mystery between the lines.
The stairs start creaking, and I jump like I’m doing something naughty. Panic tugs at my heart, whipping it into a faster pace.
“Your coffee,” he says, placing a mug of black water on the stool. “Your wine…and I’ll go get your food. I ran out of hands.”
“Thanks, babe. You're too good to me,” I say, watching him hurry down the stairs. He’s light on his feet; they hardly complain on his way down. I take a sip of wine and then exchange it for my coffee. The mug feels like a hug between my fingers, and the smell alone is enough to widen my eyes.
“I hope this is okay,” he says, presenting a plate of bite-size sandwiches. “I cut them small so it’s easier to eat.” He’s always thoughtful, but sometimes he goes beyond that. It’s almost too much, I’m not sure I would have thought of that even if I was asked, I think, and pass the parcel again.
“Thanks, babe.”
“Anytime,” he says and lifts my chin with his finger. “You deserve it, I’m so proud of you.” He plants a kiss on my forehead, I smile, and the parcel gets a little lighter. “Don’t forget we have bombs in the draw.”
“Oh yeah,” I say, with a mouth full of buttered white bread and bacon.
“Give me a shout if you want anything,” he says, closing the door, still smiling. His steps are heavier this time, each one giving away his descent. There are three bombs left, two moulded into characters and one into a shape. Pumpkin. I drop it in the water and watch it dissolve, morphing into an orange goo, then sparkling orange foam. I finish the last of the tiny triangles and wipe my greasy hands on the sleeve of my dressing gown. It’ll wash off. The water’s a perfect goldilocks temperature, and I sink straight to the depths of the bath without the need to hover. The parcel comes around again, and I can hear giggles at the back of my mind. They're laughing at me. This is why I didn't want to publish - why I shouldn't have.
"I need something!" I shout, sliding further into the water. I don't feel like playing pass the parcel anymore. The stairs creak again. I'm blowing bubbles in the water while I wait, counting the steps.
"Yes," he says, sticking his head around the door.
"Come and sit with me," I say, and he folds his forehead.
"And do what?"
"Nothing. I... I don't want to be alone."
"You're the one who wanted to have a bath?"
"I know," I say, twisting to reach my wine. "But I've changed my mind. Is that allowed?"
"Sure is, maestro."
"Don't call me that. I'm no different now than I was yesterday."
"Sorry," he says, finally picking up on my mood. "But I really mean it when I say it. You've done so well. How many people can say they've published a book?"
"Loads."
"I guess it depends on your perspective."
"You and your bloody perspectives. Can you just be moody with me? Just for a little bit," I say, passing him my wine glass for encouragement. He takes a big swig, finishing it.
"Want more?"
"Nah."
"So I guess you're right. Loads of people have published books, and some people have even published multiple." He's still smiling, but this smirk is riddled with sarcasm.
"That's what I'm talking about. It's just so pointless. Dreams are meant to be just that. Dreams."
"And even if you make them come true, you'll be doing the same old shit. Taking long baths with a glass of wine and tiny bacon sandwiches."
"God, I hope so. What's the point of making it if it means giving up all this."
"Although you might not have time. Think about all the meet and greets? You hate seeing our friends, let alone a bookshop full of strangers."
"Oh god, I've never thought of that."
"I can see it now, a queue winding onto the street. Half of them want a hug, and everyone wants to tell you how much your characters mean to them. A few might even break down and cry on your shoulder."
"Do you think I could skip that part?"
"Not if you want a career. Fanbases don't just build themselves. And think about what'll happen if someone hacks into the cloud and releases all those pics you sent last summer."
"That's a thing of the past, plus no author ever got hacked. It was all actresses and musicians."
"You're kidding, right? A pretty woman like you, with so many strong opinions. Someone is gonna want to see you naked. And once the internet wants something, it gets it."
"You're on there too, you know."
"Sure, but I'm not the one writing about femininity and love."
"What will they write about me?"
"Oh, I don't know. Something like... Young author or exotic actress? Bestselling author takes pictures too! TikTok Book sensation has nice tits," He says, waving his hands around like his sticking the headlines in the air.
"Thanks," I say, thinning the foam cover.
"Nice. Don't worry, the major outlets will be less vulgar. The BBC will probably put something more clinical. Breakout author leaks private chapters."
"I prefer the 'nice tits' one."
"Of course, you do."
"Want a refill now?"
"Sure," I say and slide underneath the foam. I hear him in the kitchen, opening the fridge and then pouring wine. Glug, glug, glug. The parcel comes around again, but I don't feel like playing anymore. I launch it in the air, and it stays there with my dreams and future tabloid headlines.
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Love, Luke
Nice tits
Love this!