Letting Go
By S. Faith, © 2009
Words: 23,566 (Part 1: 7,330)
Rating: M / R (mostly for language and adult situations)
Summary: Sometimes it's only by losing something that one can truly find it again.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Notes: Some angst, some happy. Mostly angst. Stick it out, though. It'll be worth it. Also, there are a lot of italics in this story. I'm sorry if that makes it harder to read.
Part 1.
Three days.
Three days since the blackness had begun, since the most unthinkable, most devastating thing ever to happen to him had happened, and he was not sure he would ever recover. Friends and family reacted in complete disbelief at the news, in horror, in sadness. He had to admit he felt the same way himself.
"Mark. It can't be true."
It was a variant on a conversation he'd had what felt like a million times already.
"It is," he replied, as if the wind had been knocked out of him, just as he'd answered each time previously.
"But you're so good together."
He said nothing, only thought, Clearly not.
"And you love each other so much."
Again he said nothing.
"Is there anything I can do?"
He turned his eyes upwards to meet his mother's. "No," he said curtly.
………
He woke out of a sound sleep to discover he was alone. The clock revealed that it was three in the morning. She wasn't yet in bed. Again.
Feeling cross, he slipped into his housecoat and headed for where he knew she would be: at the table in the kitchen, hunched over her laptop computer.
Hands on his hips, he stood over her sleeping form; she'd rested her head on her elbow off to the side of the computer, illuminated by the light of the swimming fish screensaver. It had been cute and somewhat endearing the first time he'd found her like this, working madly on her proposal. It was not so cute after a dozen or more occurrences.
"Bridget," he barked.
She jumped awake, startled. "Christ, Mark. You scared the living hell out of me."
"Come to bed."
She sat up in her chair before running her finger over the track pad to bring the screen back to life, then after a moment began writing again. "Yes, I will. Give me five minutes."
"Bridget," he said again, even more sternly. "You've done enough for one night."
"I'm on a roll. Just let me get this one thought down—hey!"
He set his fingers on the top edge of the screen, and started to push forward.
"Mark!" she exclaimed.
He didn't stop. "Enough."
She withdrew her fingers, ceased all motion and looked up at him as the lid clicked shut. "You know how important this is to me," she said, obviously irritated.
"I do," he said. "But not at the cost of your health, of sleeping."
"Mark," she said, "I don't have regular business hours. I like to do this when I'm inspired."
"And I like to go to bed at night with my wife," he said tersely.
She said nothing more, just stared at him, sighing loudly and somewhat exaggeratedly. "Fine."
"It's not like you weren't sleeping anyway," he reminded.
She trudged up the stairs with him following close behind. As she crossed into the room, he reached for her shoulder, but she evaded him and headed for the bed.
"You'll feel better with a night's worth of sleep," he said.
She did not reply, simply crawled into bed, nightshirt and all. She got in, turned over to face away from him. He spooned up to her back.
"Much better," he murmured, then kissed her on the hairline just behind her ear. She placed her hand on the arm encircling her waist, stroked it affectionately in apology.
He gave her another light kiss before resting on the pillow. She fell to sleep within minutes.
He always did like having her there with him best.
………
Returning home from a long day's work, he called her name out of habit. Momentarily in his confusion he did not understand why there was no call back in return, why her shoes were not in the foyer, why she had not met him with a glass of wine, taken him in her arms, and admonished him to unburden the details of his long day into her care.
It was only a moment, though. He could hardly forget with any permanence why she was not there, why his home was no longer the warm, happy refuge it once was.
He sighed, set his attaché case down, slipped out of his jacket.
His memories of his childhood before leaving for Eton, the portion of his childhood in which he could have reasonably considered home life warmly traditional, were fragmented and vague. It was only in his married life with her, with Bridget, that he felt he had a real home; never had he felt that way during his first very brief marriage. His home with Bridget was a place to retreat from the sometimes harsh nature of his work, a place where he could always find comfort with the woman he loved.
The woman he still loved.
He saw that the answerphone was blinking, but he didn't have the heart to check it. The messages were not likely to be from her, only messages from incredulous friends of his who had only just gotten the news, and were desperate to find they had been misinformed. Mark did not have it in him to disappoint anyone that evening. Instead he focused on dinner: Chinese takeout and some wine.
"Mr Darcy," said the man on the other end of the phone. "The usual?"
"I'll only need one beef broccoli and a side of steamed rice."
There was a beat of silence. "Have we offended you in some way? Was the food not prepared to your liking last time?"
He furrowed his brow. "No, the quality's been as good as ever. Why do you ask?"
"Your order tonight is much smaller than usual."
Mark muttered something non-committal, then returned the phone to its cradle.
He had never even ordered Chinese takeaway from that restaurant before he knew Bridget.
………
"Where've you been?"
"What?"
Mark was waiting impatiently in the foyer, had been alternately worried and upset that Bridget had not yet come home. She'd come into the house, coat unbuttoned, scarf askew, carrier bag bursting to full, handbag falling off of her shoulder.
"Where have you been?" he asked again, enunciating every word.
"Told you I had a late editorial meeting."
He remembered her telling him something about a meeting, but she had told him it was going to be the following week. "Just hate when you're unexpectedly late. I've asked you before to please call."
"But I thought you already knew."
"You told me it was for next Tuesday."
"Have one next Tuesday as well."
"You didn't tell me that," he said.
She rolled her eyes, dropping her bag, shucking her coat.
"What's that for?" he asked sharply.
"I didn't think I had to check in," she retorted, "and need I remind you the million times you've showed up hours later than expected."
He set his jaw firm. "Bridget, you're exaggerating," he said, "and need I remind you that you are pathologically late to everything. I always apologise when I'm unexpectedly delayed."
She pursed her lips. "I suppose it's all right when you show up late because you're doing real work and I'm not."
"Please don't put words in my mouth," he said, trying not to get angry.
They stood there, immobile in the foyer, eyes fixed to one another for many minutes, before she sighed and looked away. "I really hate coming home to the Inquisition," she said wearily. "I just want to eat supper and relax."
He strode forward and held out his arms for an embrace, which she accepted and returned.
"I would just be devastated if something happened to you," he said softly.
She tightened her arms around him momentarily, murmured, "I'm sorry."
"I'm sorry too," he said, drawing back. "I've kept supper warm for us. It should be fine."
"You didn't have to wait."
"I don't like eating alone."
She smiled wanly up to him. "To supper, then."
She was quieter than usual the rest of the night, perhaps best described as distant, but he chalked it up to her fatigue. Everything, he thought, was perfect otherwise.
………
"It was perfect. Perfect."
Jeremy stuffed a few papers into his briefcase. Mark waited for him to continue, because he knew that his friend and law partner would.
"I mean, you were never even tempted to sleep with another woman."
"I wasn't," he confirmed, adding mentally, I'm still not.
"So what on earth happened?"
Just like Jeremy to be so direct and so completely unaware of his insensitivity.
"Things just… fell apart, I guess," Mark said.
"But you still love her."
Of course he did, but he didn't answer Jeremy.
"If this could happen to you two, none of us stand a chance," Jeremy said flippantly, then held up a hand to wave as he left Mark's office.
Mark knew that Jeremy was only striving to lighten the mood. It didn't work.
………
I was only trying to help.
Mark realised that most of their fights, which had begun to occur with more frequency and escalate more rapidly within the last few months, had often begun with his saying exactly that. It didn't seem reasonable to him that she found fault with his attempts to be a loving husband. He liked to do things for her, take care of tasks for her, make arrangements for her; many of the things he did she didn't even realise he was doing most of the time. It seemed right and proper for a husband to want to do these things for his wife, the woman he loved.
The more he thought about it, the more confused and desolate he felt, never more so then the day he was served with the formal paperwork. Never did he think things could come to this.
He very quickly realised that between work and the legalities of ending his marriage he needed a distraction. Football only went so far; drinking to drown one's sorrows was never a good idea; and he didn't feel much like socialising directly with friends, most of whom only wanted to talk about the latest news in his marriage as he spent the evening keeping his emotions in check.
It was only while using his notebook computer that he found a bookmark to an online games site. In a moment of clarity he remembered how the bookmark had happened to be on his computer: during a weekend trip out of town for business, when he'd had a meeting on Saturday afternoon, she had co-opted his computer and spent the afternoon playing online. He smiled wistfully at the memory. It's what she'd been doing when he left, and it was still what she was doing when he returned five hours later. What had always rather amazed him about that day was that she'd been not only playing an online chess game, but checking email, surfing BBC news, and chatting with Tom via instant messenger—and she was still winning the chess game.
He even remembered her sign-in name: BeeJayDeeUK.
On a lark he decided to go the site; after all, he could think of worse things in the world than playing chess to take his mind off of his sorrows. He created his login, NUManHP—for his support of Newcastle United, and his London neighbourhood, Holland Park—and went to the chess area of the site, listing himself as available for a game. Within a few minutes he had an offer, and he embarked on a game that turned out to be, well… rather a dud.
He'd won the game within fifteen minutes.
When Mark looked up again, he realised three hours had passed, he'd won every game he'd been asked to play and it was long past when he should have been in bed. He signed out, closed the notebook computer, and set it aside.
Even though he'd spent the whole evening searching the players' roster for Bridget's username, Mark felt oddly better that night and fell to sleep more quickly than he he'd been able to since she'd gone.
………
From the look on her face, she was furious, more furious than he'd seen her in a very long time.
"Mark," she said in a low voice. "Why didn't you tell me that Anne called?"
He drew his brows together, fleetingly recollecting the inbound call he'd taken on her behalf while she was out shopping. "Because she asked me if you were available on the 15th. I told her no, because we'll be in Cambridge for that dinner—"
"Mark!" she exclaimed, interrupting him. "That's the woman from Pygmalion Books! I've been trying to reach her for weeks regarding the samples I sent her!"
"I'm sorry," he said. "I misunderstood. I thought she was a friend—"
She threw down the handful of papers she was holding. "Would it kill you to just tell me who called for me, let me decide whether or not to call back, and stop trying to run every aspect of—"
"I wasn't," he said, interrupting in return, finding his own anger and frustration building that she would assume, yet again, that he had some kind of ulterior motive in mind. "I was only—"
Trying to help. He stopped suddenly, never finished the sentence, but there it sat, hanging out between the two of them until she said, "Stop bloody trying to help. It's like I can't be trusted to take care of my own problems. Can you just step back and let me breathe a little?"
He resented the implication that he was not only a control freak, but smothering her in some way. It was not his fault that she chose—and continued to choose—to misinterpret his altruistic acts of kindness as an attempt to commandeer her life or rein in her freedom. "Do you hear how you sound? Do you really think I'm trying to do these things?"
"It's not what I think, it's how it feels, and lately it feels pretty bad!" she said, clearly exasperated. "Every time I turn around, it's something else! Cleaning up after me like a child, making my appointments for me, making assumptions and decisions about whose phone messages are worthy to pass on…. It feels like you think of me as some kind of imbecile who can't do anything on her own, or some kind of porcelain doll that needs looking after and sheltering."
"So what you're saying is that you'd rather I—"
"I'd rather you lighten the hold on my lead," she said tartly.
There didn't seem to be any getting through to her; he began pacing, running his fingers through his hair, trying to understand the source of her rancour. In his aggravation, he raced headfirst into hyperbole, and blurted, "What do you want then? A divorce?"
………
As he always did when he had this dream, he woke up before he could hear her stinging, unexpected answer in the affirmative, at which he had been too stunned to react, too proud to beg her or to tell her he was not serious.
………
She'd left that night for the flat, and made it very plain in the days to follow during their brief, stilted and terse conversations that she had no desire to return to the house. What had once been empty and cold before she'd come into his life was empty and cold again, with the added melancholy of so many little reminders of their married life together: photographs, trinkets, even the sight of her favourite mug. He allowed himself to believe that the phone would ring, it would be Bridget, and in tears she would beg him to take her back. It was delusion, of course; denial. It did not happen.
There were many times he was tempted to call and beg her to come back instead, but he was far too proud to do so. If this was what she truly wanted, he was not going to humiliate himself in the process.
………
One hundred chess games in three weeks.
It might have seemed excessive, but most of the matches were ten minutes or fewer in length, and he had not lost one yet. Frankly he wondered if he might need to find a new distraction, because the rate with which he was ploughing through the current roster of players was alarming, and most of them refused to play him again.
U alrdy beat me 10x, one had typed in stilted online talk. That's enuf 4 me.
He logged into the game website anyway.
After sitting idle for nearly five minutes, he was about to sign out when he got challenged to a game. It was a user he hadn't recalled seeing before.
BlueBelle18.
Hi numan, RU ready? came the prompt.
He dove right in, and to his extreme pleasure, this player was quite a challenge, the game very extended compared to most others he'd played. In fact, for the first time since joining the site, he lost.
Good game, said BlueBelle18. RU up 4 anothr?
He smiled and responded, Absolutely.
They quickly engaged in a second game, which was just as challenging as the first, but left him as the victor.
Wow, said BlueBelle18. Havnt lost in a long time.
The last game was my first loss, he replied.
LOL, came the response. U will have to do what I do b4 long. Change nicks.
He chuckled, though was a little puzzled by the repeated use on the site of what he could only assume were acronyms or abbreviations.
I'll bear that in mind, he replied. One more for a tie-breaker?
There was a pause before he had a response. Yah sure, the reply came. V much like 2.
As they embarked on another game, he decided to enquire about the nickname BlueBelle18. He suspected his opponent must have been a woman, as he couldn't fathom a man with the name of a flower as a login ID.
Why 'BlueBelle18'? he asked. For nick I mean.
Not 1st choice. Change nicks a lot, said BlueBelle18. Eye colour. Girl.
If you change again, he said, you'll have to let me know.
Unless u change same time, came the reply, after her move. Then we r kinda OOL. LOL.
OOL, LOL; he had to admit he was a little lost in the techno-talk, but didn't want to ask and appear unhip.
Within a few more moves BlueBelle18 checkmated his king; instead of feeling defeated as he ordinarily would have, he was elated to finally found an opponent who could challenge him.
Do u do this evry nite? she asked.
Pretty much every night these days, he replied.
Hope 2 see u round again. Bye.
With that she signed off.
As he got ready for bed, he found himself thinking of the moves that had ultimately led to his defeat, and wondering how he might best avoid such mistakes in the future. As he switched out the light, he realised it was the first evening in a long while that Bridget had not consumed his every thought. It was something of a relief to him; he loved Bridget, but he had begun to fear that he was obsessing in a detrimental way.
He slept well that evening. No bad dreams.
………
There, wandering around the vegetable bins in Fresh and Wild, he'd seen her. When their eyes met, he knew there was no way he was going to get out of avoiding a conversation, so as he steeled his reserve, put on his best mask of cool indifference, he approached Jude with a stiff smile. "Hello, Jude."
"Hello, Mark," she said, shifting between hands her basket, which was filled with what were clearly dinner ingredients. Her jaw was firmly set, and though she looked at him defiantly, she seemed a little torn. She was obviously first and foremost Bridget's friend, but in the time he and Bridget had been married, he had become friends with her friends as well. He preferred to think that they'd grown to like him at least a little bit.
"How are you?" he asked.
"Fine," she said sharply. "Yourself?"
She was only asking to be polite. That much he could tell. "I'm getting along as best I can given the circumstances," he said, his own voice as devoid of emotion as he'd ever heard it. He had to keep a tight rein on it; he didn't want to appear weak or pathetic in front of Jude. He could not, however, help from asking, "How's Bridget?"
"Fine," she said again, in the same sharp tone. "She's fine. Moving on." Jude's lips were pursed tight.
"She's not returning my calls right now," he explained.
Her expression said to him, Of course she's not.
"I have to go," Jude said, her eyes fixed to his. "Enjoy yourself."
She walked away from him, and he looked down to his basket, realising she must have been commenting on his purchases for the evening: fillet steaks, a bottle of dry pinot noir, and a few new potatoes.
He had been getting tired of Chinese and Indian takeaway, after all, and pizza was out of the question.
………
"Pizza?"
She looked up at him, anticipating his response, her eyes twinkling mischievously; 'pizza' was her answer anytime he asked for suggestions for supper. In response he ordinarily affected a stern voice and said, "Beside pizza," which she in turn expected. Tonight though he realised he'd like nothing more, as it meant he wouldn't have to spend time cooking or in transit to and from a restaurant.
He could instead spend that time with her, preferably as he'd been thinking about her all day, thinking about taking her off to bed.
"Pizza it is then," he replied, catching her slightly by surprise.
Her eyes went wide. "Really?"
He nodded. She squealed, bounced up on her toes and kissed him.
He loved how the little things got her so exuberantly excited.
………
Hoping 2 see u, came the message from the moment he'd logged in. Playin 4 hrs & won all, need challenge.
His dinner had been quite delicious, and he'd brought his glass of wine with him to the computer. If Bridget could have seen him, she would have teased him mercilessly.
I'm up for the challenge, he said. Ready?
U bet, BlueBelle18 replied. Tho cant stay v long. Early class in a.m.
He started the game, which moved quickly, but expertly; he'd learned his lesson from playing against her the last time, and he saw her telegraph her strategies from a mile away. He smirked, continuing to play…
Until he realised he'd walked right into a trap. She took the game.
Very clever, he said.
=D was her only response (emoticons he had figured out very quickly) until she added, Another?
Sure—you're the one with the early class, he said.
They embarked on another game and for a while there it was a tough call as for who might emerge victorious. In the end he triumphed despite the wine making his head swirl a bit. He cursed himself for having had a second glass.
Feeling a bit out of it, he said. Should quit while I'm ahead.
LOL, she typed. Is not that late.
I must just be an old man, he responded.
LOL, she said again. Must be.
If I ask you something, he wrote, promise not to laugh?
The only reply was, ???
What's LOL?
There was a long pause before there was a reply.
Sorry, she typed. Was ROTFL. Means 'laugh out loud'.
And what's ROTFL? he asked. In for a penny, in for a pound.
'Rolling on the floor laughing', she typed back. How old r u? 70?
He chuckled. Not quite. Early 40s. Though to a girl her age, he might as well have been seventy.
There was a pause before she replied. Sorry. Hope not offended.
No, he replied. Sometimes feel like 70 though.
LOL, she replied. Srsly, does chat speak bug u?
He thought for a moment. A little. Someone as good at chess as you are—the broken English is a bit of a disconnect.
LOL—point taken, she said. It seemed she was too fond of that particular acronym to stop using it. Oh, gotta go. See ya round.
Until next time.
He logged off, took in the very last of his wine, and went off to bed, his thoughts pleasantly occupied with chess moves and strategy, and boggled by the notion that a schoolgirl could be such a prodigy at chess. He knew the reality of his unpleasant situation, and was glad for the distraction that his nightly games brought to him.
………
"Have you and Bridget been talking?"
It was his mother, whose phone call had surprised him.
"Not really," he admitted. "She doesn't pick up my calls… or return them."
"Mark, whatever you do, don't stop trying." Elaine sighed. "If you can just get to talking, I just know you can find your way back together."
He could not help feeling slightly defensive; it wasn't as if he wasn't trying. "We can't talk if she doesn't want to," he said. "She said she needed some time alone."
"Just promise me you won't stop trying." She paused for a moment before continuing, her tone more serious, "Mark, I know you don't like to talk about your feelings, but lately you seem so much more closed off than—"
At that moment, he heard a tone that indicated he had another call, which was just as well, as he really did not want to discuss his marital strife with his mother. "I'm sorry, I have to take this. I'm expecting a call from Jeremy. Will you hold?"
"Just give me a call me later," she said with a sigh.
He pressed the button to switch lines. "Mark Darcy here."
There was a pause before the caller spoke. "Mark. It's Bridget."
There was a rush of adrenaline, of emotion, at the sound of her voice. "Bridget. How are you?"
She took in a great, steadying breath. "I'd be better, frankly, if you left me alone right now."
"Sorry?"
"The calls, Mark. It's more of the same, and you don't even realise it. You don't get it." She was somewhere between exasperated, desperate, and angry. "I don't need you calling to remind me to pay my bills, check my mailbox, stuff like that. Can't you just let go? Please?"
His calls to her had been for trivial matters, it was true, but it mostly had been an excuse to contact her in an effort to spark a conversation. It was becoming clear to him that she had no interest in talking, in working things out. "Fine," he said petulantly.
As he slammed down the receiver, he felt tears sting his eyes. He hated feeling so emotionally weak, so helpless to fix the situation. All he wanted to do was take her in his arms, apologise profusely for ever making her feel like he thought she was feeble—although it was never his intention, and he still didn't understand why she thought he did—and explain that all he ever wanted to do was take care of her and make sure she wanted for nothing. He wanted to say that he was sorry and would do anything she wanted to make up for it if she would only come back.
As it stood, she wasn't coming back.
………
After that crushing blow he had no desire to cook for himself, so once some glimmer of appetite had returned, he opted for takeaway again. At a time of night when he usually would have been preparing for bed, he ate in front of his computer with a glass of red wine, in order to connect to the chess site to engage his mind on something a little more pleasant than his soon-to-be ex-wife telling him to bugger off.
He could not get a game to load.
Bloody hell, he thought. Not this on top of everything else today.
He noticed, though, he had a new private message via the site. He clicked on it.
Hi, trying to connect, but can't—are you able to? BlueBelle18
He hit reply, telling her that he too was having problems getting through. Glancing to the clock, he added, Up late on a school night, aren't you?
A few minutes later her reply landed in his inbox.
Ha ha, or should I say LOL. Not a student. Am up late because it's been a rotten day. Was really hoping to have a game or 2.
Same here, he replied, then clicked Send.
To his surprise a chat window popped open. It was BlueBelle18.
Chat is faster, she wrote. 'Same here' meaning rotten day, wanting a game or 2, or both?
Both.
That's too bad. Am up 'cos I can't sleep. Had row with husband.
He blinked in surprise. Married? Eighteen seemed so young to not continue an education, to already be married. He wrote, Sorry to hear that.
Yes, well, she said. Haven't been getting on well lately.
Maybe you play too much chess, he returned, then added, Just kidding.
Wish that were it, she replied, tho thx for the laugh. So how about you?
He sighed, then typed the short, not-so-sweet truth. My wife left me.
:-O—her emoticon response—conveyed her surprise. She then added, So sorry, numan.
Thanks, he said.
If you want to talk about it, you can, she replied. This sort of thing seems to be goin round.
He sat back in his chair, took a long draw on his glass of wine before leaning forward to type. Just doing my best to be a good husband. Don't really know where I went wrong.
There was nothing for a good minute. Have you talked to her?
Tried. Will keep trying.
Good, she typed; & have you listened?
Of course, he said without hesitation.
Good, she said again. Can tell you that is what hurts me most, when he seems not to listen.
He brought his brows together, feeling badly for his chess partner. I'm sorry for you. I really am. No one deserves that, either not being listened to, or being made to believe that's the case.
Thx, she replied. Must be hard for you to not know where you went wrong & not getting chance to find out.
He nodded, even though he knew she couldn't see it. Feel kind of at an stalemate, he said. Hoping for forward motion in near future.
Me too, she replied, I mean both for you & for me. After a moment another line appeared from her: LOL, we are not playing chess & are still using chess terms.
He chuckled. So we are. He finished up the remains of his dinner. He tried the chess game once more. It was still down. I'm about ready to give up on this for the night. Too bad.
Was nice to talk tho. No one else really understands, she replied. Chess another night?
Sure, he replied. Until then.
He logged out, sat back in his seat again, drank the last of his wine, feeling pensive and a little melancholy. In the course of their intensifying fights, he had listened to Bridget, but had he really heard her? He considered again her call to him, where she had accused him of trying to stifle her from a distance and treating her like she couldn't take care of herself. He thought he'd listened; he just also thought she was overreacting. What aggravated him in this whole situation was her seeming refusal to understand that he had only done the things that he had done not because he thought her incapable or in need of special handling but because he loved her.
If anything, in a way he felt it was as if she was not listening to him.
He ran his fingers through his hair, set the glass down, then rose from his chair and stretched. Time for bed. Alone. Again.
………
The smirk on her face was a little deflating on the ego, especially as they were in her bedroom, and he was getting undressed in front of her.
"That's cute," she said.
"What is?"
"You. Your… boxers," she said.
"My boxers?" he asked.
She smiled in a slightly bashful manner. "You're cute in them."
Still in the boxers, he sat on the bed, where she was lying waiting for him, and he stretched out beside her. "I still don't understand."
"You don't need to understand," she said, reaching up to touch her finger to his nose in a playful manner. "You only need to know I think you're cute in them."
He grinned, then laughed, bending to kiss her. She was odd at times, but he liked that about her. Upon drawing back, she met his eyes with her own. "Get those cute things off, already," she commanded gently.
He stood up and shimmied out of his pants, scooped them up off of the floor, shook them free of wrinkles, and proceeded to fold them into thirds.
"What on earth are you doing?" she asked. He turned again. Another ego-deflating smirk.
"Folding my underpants as I've folded all the rest of my clothes."
She blinked, still smiling, regarding him as she might regard a space alien. "Your trousers I understand. But your smalls?"
He continued folding his pants, then set them down before climbed back in the bed. "You don't need to understand," he said with a grin, echoing her own words as he pulled her close.
"But it's weird," she said, looking amused. "Borderline obsessive-compulsive-type behaviour."
"How is that any less obsessive-compulsive," he asked, "than counting calories for everything you put into your mouth?"
As he said it, he saw her lips purse in fighting back the laugh bubbling in her throat. "Not everything, Mark."
He felt a blush race across his skin as she leaned forward to kiss him though her giggles.
………
As he poured his morning coffee, his telephone began to ring. He picked up the receiver as he absently he rubbed under his eyes; sleep had been somewhat elusive the previous night. "Mark Darcy speaking."
"Mark."
It was Bridget; he was astounded and elated. Her tone in just that one word, his name, was gentler than the previous evening.
"Bridget," he said, his heart racing. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"I wanted to… say I'm sorry for jumping down your throat yesterday." There was a pause before she continued. "I wanted to know if you could meet me tonight."
"Absolutely," he said without hesitation. "Why don't you come—" He stopped himself from saying 'home'. "—over and I'll cook us supper?"
He could hear the smile in her voice. "Okay."
Despite his sleep deficit, the day was the best he'd had in some time. His working day seemed to drag on, however, until the end when he could pop to the market. He bought some poultry and potatoes for a delicious reconciliatory dinner, some flowers and candles for the table, then he went straight home to start cooking for the two of them.
Bridget arrived at nearly seven, letting herself in with her own key. She appeared just as he was putting the finishing touches on dinner. "Hi," she said in a tone that bordered on shy, nervously fingering the strap of her purse as it rested on her shoulder. It was the first time he had seen her since she'd left, and she looked weary and a bit pallid. Not unlike himself.
Still, seeing her was a sight for sore eyes; it served to remind him that to him she was the most beautiful woman on the world, that he loved her more than ever before. "Hello," he said in response, quelling the emotion down, setting the utensils down alongside the range. "It's so good to see you."
She offered a small smile. "It's good to see you too." She craned her head to get a better look at what was cooking. "What are you making?"
"Pan-fried chicken with rosemary and potatoes," he said, clearing his throat, picking up the wooden utensil again to stir the food lest it burn to the bottom of the pan. "Just hope I'm not making a botch of it."
"It smells good." When he turned to look at her again, he saw that she was regarding him with slightly misty eyes. "I'm sure it will be good."
"I just want everything to be nice for you. For us."
He saw her lower lip tremble; simultaneous to that, she walked forward and gave him a hug. He dropped the spatula onto the counter in his surprise and returned the embrace, holding her close to him for many moments.
"I appreciate this," she said. "Seeing me tonight. Cooking. Just… the effort in general."
"Anything for you," he whispered.
As she pulled away, she looked up to him with a familiar fondness in her eyes.
"Are we close to eating?"
He nodded. "If you'll sit, I'll serve."
"Okay."
He dished out the food, poured the wine, and over the course of the meal it was nice to see a genuine smile find her features again and again. The way their exchange carried on reminded him of a first date more than anything else; they pointedly avoided conversational landmines, which he figured they'd come back around to and deal with once the nervousness dissipated. When he reached out to place his hand over hers at the conclusion of the meal, she did not draw away, which made him smile.
He tightened his fingers around hers, locking gazes with her. "I've missed you so much, Bridget."
"I've missed you too."
She picked up their joined hands and placed a tender kiss on his knuckles.
He said, "It's been so dull and dreary without you."
Her eyes were sparkling blue and glossy with tears. "I know what you mean."
As if mutually agreed upon with unspoken words, they both leaned forward to meet in the middle for a kiss; touching his lips to hers sparked that fire of passion in him that had been sorely missing since she'd left. He pulled her out of her chair to sit upon his lap, holding her closely against him, kissing her with the love and reverence he still had and would always have for her. The feel of her fingernails raking through his hair, combing along the nape of his neck and along the top of his collar, caused his kiss to become a little more demanding.
She pulled away, breathless and ruddy, only to place small kisses on his face, near his ear. "Have missed this too," she said in an almost guilty tone. "Very much."
He agreed with not so much a word but an action, rearing back to kiss her again, veritably falling head first into her; his hands spanned her back, his fingers trailed down the valley of her spine to her bottom, pressing them into her. He heard her, felt her make a soft sound in his mouth.
He broke away, asked close to her ear between breaths, "Upstairs?"
She replied in the affirmative.
He got to his feet with her in his arms, and made the trek to the master bedroom, fuelled on with her delicate kisses to his throat, her fingers in his hair again, until he practically kicked the door down, strode to the bed, and sat her upon the edge.
She had barely left his arms when he launched upon her with a kiss again, pressing her flat against the bed, pulling at buttons and fabric to gain access to the wonder of her body, just as she was doing to him. It was desperate, almost animalistic—to be expected after so long apart—yet every moment was suffused with the love they had for each other.
To hear her raggedly call out his name, her voice shaking and thick with desire, was one of those things he hadn't realised he'd missed as much as he did until he thought he might not hear it again. The sound of it spurred him on, fuelled his stamina, and he wanted to hear her voice that way as many times as he (and she) could stand.
It was afterwards that she laid there in the circle of his arms, sighing and placing kisses along his collarbone, stroking her fingers along his sweat-sheened skin until finally all motion stopped. He could tell by the way her breathing had evened out that she had fallen to sleep. He reached over as gingerly as he could to switch off the lamp, then gathered her up in his arms. Before long, as he kissed the crown of her head tenderly, lazily swept his fingers along her back, he too fell to a deep and satisfying sleep.
………
Mark was tempted to think that the entire evening had been a wonderful (and extremely vivid) dream, but when he woke that next morning to find his wife in his arms, he smiled and kissed her hair again. She stirred and stretched a little before blinking her eyes awake.
Her entire face lit up when she saw him. It was a good sign. It was definitely a good sign.
"Good morning," he said, his voice scratchy from sleep.
"Mmm," she said. "Morning."
"Last night was wonderful."
"Better than wonderful," she said drowsily.
"I'm glad to hear you say that," Mark said. "Glad it's the weekend. Can go to the flat and gather up your things."
"What?" she asked, snapping to attention, pulling back to look at him, then asked again, "What?"
"Your things," he reiterated. With an affectionate and reassuring pat to her bottom, he added, hoping he was indeed absolved, "All is forgiven, right?"
"Excuse me?" she said. "We had one night on the long road to a lasting reconciliation."
"What more is needed?" he asked, completely confused. In a straightforward tone he said, "You can come home and we can get on with our lives."
She threw back the bedclothes and got to her feet, yanking a blanket up and around her naked form. "Mark, you just don't get it," she said, looking pained. "Your insinuating that I have been deigned as forgiven, along with the condescending arse-patting, kind of undoes all of your good work from last night. And your assumption that I'd just trot right back home like nothing was wrong…" She trailed off.
He blinked, utterly perplexed. "You're right. I don't get it. I don't understand why you think I'd mean that, or why you can't move back into the house," he said. "It's hard to make progress when you're not here, and then when you are, you assume the worst in everything I do or say."
She let out a long breath. "And it's my fault yet again," she said exasperatedly.
"I didn't say that," Mark said. He indicated the bed beside him. "Come here. We'll take a deep breath, calm down, and talk like reasonable people."
"No," she said, rather forcefully as she started gathering up her clothes. "Can't believe this. Nothing's changed. You're still trying to order me around like a child."
"Stop being ridiculous," he said. "I'm doing no such thing."
She stopped all motion, her arms filled with her shirt, trousers, bra and assorted smalls, and merely stared at him. He immediately knew his misstep. "'Ridiculous'. Right." She started pulling her clothing on in a haphazard and hurried fashion, the blanket falling to the floor.
"Bridget, please. I'm sorry. Don't leave."
She held up her hand. "Mark, enough," she said. "Don't call me, I'll call you. Or rather, my lawyer will."
She gave him one last hard look, her eyes angry yet emotional, before she stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind her.
He sat there stunned and in silence for many moments before falling back to lie on the bed. When he next spoke, it was to an empty room: "Fuck."