A snap shot of a moment. Guilt, obsession and self loathing ... all my favourite topics.

What else could I have done? The heat of the day soaking into the ground, snagging my every step. I’d seen him before, passing at this very road; time stuttering as my heart jack-hammered in my chest, recognition bouncing between us like a dizzy fly, the window of decision closing.

We both kept pace and carried on in our stride, speeding up to make up for the loss in time. Heads fixed. Mine at least. I saw him. And he saw me. My daily walk home from work now filled with an uneasy expectation. Surely our paths would cross again. At the same road no doubt. And yet with each new day the expectation dulled, stuck with the same new faces leering into my vision through the haze of the evening. Never his. Not again.

Until today.

Crossing the road, high rise buildings stretching up and ahead along the side street, slow revolving doors spitting out the day’s work detritus… and as my eyes levelled, him. Exquisitely tailored suit hugging his lank frame, legs striding on the pavement, my feet slowing to echo his progress at a safe distance. His hands flicked to his pockets then out again, and a trail of smoke began to trail his route.

There was really nothing else to be done. This moment would not come again unless contrived and with the trail of smoke fading in my sight, I sped up and followed his path. His confident gait unchanged despite all that had happened, sick loop playing in my head, reminding me of it all over again.

His flat receded into the landscape, ivy clambering up the red brick, leafy trees lining the road. The door slammed and I stopped. I sought clues from the rustle of the curtains, illumination of lights and flicker of television set. None came. The glow of the day faded around me quickly and soon I was shivering. An insistent breeze easing me away. There had to be more. The next day and the same walk home, my stride kept slowing for every corner, waiting to be startled. Back at the road. Recycled smog and yet more new faces. The turn into the side street and the glint of the revolving gold doors once again catching my eyes. A few more steps. Any minute now. 

Nothing. The doors expelling nothing but re-circulated air. The exhilaration stumbling out of me with every step away. The fear too. My remorse and guilt and hate remaining like a ball of phlegm at the back of my throat. I swallowed.

The rest of the week faltered on, time slowing at the end of every day, the ground turning to treacle as I laboured towards that road. Towards that side street. The evening skittering away from me with each gust of air. Always nothing, always relief and disappointment.

The awkward birth of another week, dragging my feet to distraction, remove the thoughts of this nothing day, expectation drained from the week of recycled air and same new faces. And then, fate plucking at your heartstrings once more, in case you’d forgotten what being fucked with felt like. The suit. The smoke. I checked my watch and followed him once more.

*

He’d seen before, that first time, when our eyes snagged and time slowed. The instant flicker of recognition mirroring mine. It wasn’t enough. There needed to be more.

“You’ve been following me.”

There doesn’t seem to be anything to add.

“What do you want? Money?”

“I want to be able to sleep.”

He flicks his cigarette between his fingers, ash fumbling on to the lip on the tray, glow of the end dying.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” and he sucks back hard on the yellow end and the glow glows once more.

The words are sticking in my throat and yet the fidget of his body fills me with calm. He’s scared of me, though we both have the same to lose. Maybe it’s the desperate panic in my eyes.

“How do you sleep?”

“I, uh, I work it’s tiring I guess. I come home and Tom cooks me dinner. We have a glass of wine…” He blushes and sips his drink. “What else is there?”

“Don’t you, I mean, I can’t, I close my eyes and all I see is-”

He raises his hand limply, eyes resting shut, face pained. It won’t stop me.

“How do you shut it out? What we did. How can I? I want to be like you. I want to forget. I want to sleep.”

“I can’t help you. If this is what you want I think you should go.”

The foam in his glass slides to the bottom and he crushes the last of the glow from his cigarette. There’s nothing left to say.

“There’s nothing  left to say.” He turns, blurring into indifference.

“I can’t just let you go like that. Not again.” His face snaps back into focus. “We were both there. We both… if you don’t help me…”

My sentences don’t need  finishing anymore, he knows what I’m saying. He lights another cigarette and gestures for another drink.

“Tell me what you want.”

“I look into your eyes and they’re dead. How’d you kill that, that inside you? What we did to his…”

“I don’t know what to say. You’re weak and I am not. You let this thing affect. I don’t. I go home, eat dinner and fuck my wife and never does that thought cross my mind. That questioning, nagging, doubting thought that’s driven you to wherever the fuck you are. That thing is an abstract to me. It happened to someone else in another time who just happens to be me now.” 

He’s gulping at a new drink and maintaining a consistent glow on his cigarette now.

“It’s simple expediency. Why distract myself with something I can’t change, have no control over. Why, why…” He clasps his drink. 

“Why feel guilty?” 

“Exactly. I can’t help you, you see, because I don’t understand you. I don’t understand your need. You want something I just have. I didn’t earn it, or work for it. It’s in me. And so I can sleep.” 

“I know she was a friend of yours.” Time shatters inexplicably with the contortions of his face. 

I wipe a fleck of foam and blood from my lip and note the shards of beer and drops of glass dotting the table. Red tracing the lines in his palm, a thin river creeping along its predestined route, red replacing red replacing red replacing red, ending in an ink spot sea on the table. The flex of his fingers smudges the inky red red into a dirty brown and he leaves the jagged stump of his pint. I stay.