be alone. Quickly, his arm collapses as his body finds sleep, pinning me to the bed.
I focus on my breath, the rise and fall of my ribcage. I have to wait; I have to make sure he’s fully gone before I get up. I do not want him to wake. I need to be alone so much right now that I’d kill him if I could, just for the peace, just to ensure he stays sleeping.
In and out, in and out.
Breathing really is quite painful sometimes, isn’t it?
Gretel isn’t here.
It’s just me. April.
In this strange flat, with this strange man who doesn’t know who I am. I check his sleeping face one more time. He is out. The slimy dead slug of the used condom dangling from his other hand. I delicately remove myself from under him, rolling until I’m standing, naked, looking down at him.
Still sleeping.
It’s just me in this flat. My throat throbbing with screams that want to be screamed till my voice runs dry, but that would wake him up. I find my dress discarded on his wooden floor and hold it to my cheek with shaking hands. Then I pad out barefoot, gently closing the door behind me.
The living room is still how we left it. The scene of the wooing. The ice in our margaritas hasn’t fully melted yet. Our meals lie half-eaten – the bowls of handmade dips still full and waiting to be scooped. A clock ticks on the wall. It’s not even eight thirty. I clutch my dress to me tighter and I enter the tiling of Joshua’s bathroom. The tang of Mr Muscle punctuates the air. I picture him scrubbing it moments before I arrived. The heat seeps through the small, open window above the sink. I can hear the laughs of Friday night bouncing through. I close it. I pull the string of the extractor fan, the hum giving me the white noise needed to cover the gasps escaping my mouth.
I lock the door.
I fall, naked, onto the bathmat.
Reasons why I’ve cried in bathrooms
- Because I don’t want a man to know I’m crying
- Because I don’t want a man to know I’m crying
- Because I don’t want a man to know I’m crying
- Occasionally, work stress
- Because I don’t want a man to know I’m crying
- Because I don’t want a man to know I’m crying
- Occasionally, PMS
- Because I don’t want a man to know I’m crying
When I’m finished, you would never know how hard I fell apart. My breathing is back to normal. My face is blotch-free. My shoulders unhunched. I’ve managed to get the nine-yard stare out of my eyes.
The white wall, the white wall, the white wall.
No.
Joshua’s still dozing as I climb back into bed, fully naked, because that’s what Gretel would do. I dream up the scenario of what she’s been doing for the last forty-five minutes. She would’ve slept too, dozing happily in her post-orgasmic bliss that was real instead of faked. Then she would’ve done something fun! Oh, I know, she’ll want more cocktails. I climb back out and retrieve the melted margaritas, placing them carefully on Joshua’s side table before getting under the covers again.
My movements stir him. He half opens one eye.
‘Oh hello.’ He reaches out and pulls my head into his chest.
‘I’ve brought in the margaritas.’
‘You’re a legend.’ He kisses the top of my head. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to doze off.’ He kisses my head again. ‘You tired me out.’
I twist in his arms to look up at him. He has quite a lot of nostril hair for a man not yet 35. ‘You tired me out too.’ I lean over to get the drinks. He sighs exhaustedly and props himself up, saying ‘thank you’. We sit, sipping, conversation temporarily not flowing. I know I should be bright and sparky, like Gretel would be, but I used up a lot of energy climbing my way out of hell on Joshua’s bathmat.
‘We didn’t finish dinner,’ Joshua opens.
‘We bloody better. I’m starving.’
He pats my thigh. ‘I’m glad my cooking didn’t put you off.’
‘What can I say? The man can cook …’ I take a syrupy salty gulp. ‘Among other things …’
My words visibly relax him, his body softens into his pillow. ‘Oh,’ he says, the corners of his mouth tugging upwards. ‘So you …?’
I nod hard. ‘Oh yeah! Couldn’t you tell?’
‘Yeah, I mean, no. I wondered. So you did? Of course. Sorry. That’s great. Great.’