Her (iii)

Even now, years later, I still feel bad for feeling bad about that lump.

Is it sad that it's the enduring emotion I associate with my mother?

I try to remember something, some moment of closeness, a warm memory, but sensing it might hurt, I pull away.

Getting rid of the lump would have felt like the ultimate disrespect to her, a rejection of her core values. Something I couldn't do, not when the last words I'd said to her had been angry, maybe even hateful. Not when I feel so sure, after all this time, that she's dead.

A therapist might tell me this silly little lump is all I have left of her. I don't know. I've never been to a therapist.

I peer over my shoulder into the bathroom mirror. I could swear it's got bigger.

Frowning, I rattle my brain, trying to sharpen the memory of that ancient doctor gesturing yea big... and try to twist myself to poke at it. Does it give pain?

Something clenches and shivers in my belly. Oh god, have I got cancer? Have I got cancer, Mother, and you just let it sit there in my body for all these years, and told me not to be vain about it... guilted me into leaving it be... Even now, from beyond the probable grave?

I have a date, tonight. Surely if ever we're allowed to be vain, this is the time. I'm picking my outfit carefully.

I should wear spaghetti straps and put my hair up. If he does a runner just because of a silly little lump, he's not worth having. Bullet dodged, darling.

Is that me, or is that her?

It keeps me chaste, this bump of mine. I don't jump into bed with anyone lightly. I've been single for a while now, but you can't just date to stop being lonely, right? A sure-fire way to snag an absolute loser, or worse, an abuser.

That's why I have Mario. He keeps me company and gets me out in the fresh air for walks. He makes me think about something (someone) other than myself. He's a good listener, and an excellent snuggler. If not for Mario, I might've caved. Settled. Mario is a good boy.

One thing is certain, I won't be inviting my date in "for a drink" later. If I eventually do, "coffee" will be had only in the most conservative positions. Missionary coffee. Me-on-top coffee, but only face to face, not face-to-feet. Not yet.

God, I need to stop overthinking this. Stop getting ahead of myself. Go. Enjoy myself. See if there's anything there. And in the morning, book the bloody doctor's appointment already.

I get into the shower. Mario waits, curled on my pile of discarded clothes, to lick my ankles when I get out.

+

The date goes okay.

Marcus smells good and his beard is well-groomed. His eyes crinkle pleasantly when he smiles.

It's an effort to respond when he cracks a joke, because I'm barely listening. All my attention is focused on that spot on the back of my shoulder. Surely he must think I'm a cold fish? Uptight? This is a passing thought, dwarfed by, Is it giving pain? Does it feel numb? Is that worse? Is it wobbling? Is it growing right now?

It feels bigger to me every moment. In my mind's eye, it's enormous, gruesome, and still growing. I chew on my pasta, and try to be normal. Then, realising I've been chewing too long, I swallow hurriedly, choke, and reach for my glass of water.

+

There's no goodnight kiss.

I reflect, as I slide the bolt on my front door, that I blew it. I shrug into pyjamas, loathing the feel of cotton dragging over it, and head for the sofa.

Wine glass in hand, I've barely settled amongst the cushions with Mario burrowed in beside me, when my phone dings and the screen lights up.

Thank you so much, I had a great time

I flip it over, and ignore the second ding.

"Tomorrow," I whisper to Mario's silky, chocolate-speckled ear. "First thing. I'll book that appointment."

Maybe then I can think about the date.

+

>Hey, sorry about that. Had something I had to sort out. Are you free for a drink this week?

>Sure. lmk when you're free

>Got no plans. Evening is better. Thursday?

>Working. Friday ok. 8?

>I finish early on Friday, so I could do earlier?

Staring at the screen, I chew my lip, willing him to respond. It's been weeks. I do feel better now that I've had the appointment.

He does seem alright. At the very least, I should meet up with him again, give him another chance. Or, more accurately, see if he will give me another chance. I should try to explain. Not in a way that sounds like I'm angling for sympathy, either. It has to be face-to-face. To get the nuance right. And not late on a Friday evening, when everywhere is heaving. Crowds, booze, and loud music forcing us to lean close to each other just for a normal conversation. A mocking facsimile of intimacy that repulses me.

...

ok

I finish at 4, I can meet you straight after. Same place. x

I agonised over that x, but what does it matter, really? His messages seem a bit short and cold, but he hardly knows me yet. I haven't given him a chance. Not properly.

And look at that, he hasn't responded.

+

The rest of the week passes in a bit of a blur. I'm very tired. I've never known exhaustion like it. It feels like I'm not getting any sleep at all. It must be the worry about my looming doctor's appointment.

Friday afternoon is unseasonably warm, and sweat blooms under my arms in a less than ladylike manner. I regret my choice to meet him straight after work. This is my second chance to make a first impression, if such a thing exists. Why am I not giving myself time to go home, freshen up, get changed?

Worse, I get stuck in a meeting, and can't leave as early as I hoped. I'm really messing this up. Maybe this was all a bad idea.

+

When I get to the restaurant, I can't see him anywhere. Phew! He must be running late, too.

A quick check of my messages: nothing. Well, I didn't send him a message to let him know I was running late either.

I retreat to the ladies', touch up my makeup, reapply perfume, and then install myself at the bar. My vantage point gives me a decent view of the entrance. I can be gracious, when he finally arrives.

+

The hands on the clock crawl miserably slowly. Marcus doesn't appear.

Glittering lines appear at the edge of my vision, and I wobble on my seat. I should go home, I should-

+

Rather than waking, I become aware, after I don't know how long, that I am awake. Unfamiliar (not unpleasant) smells are in my nostrils. The shape and size of the room feels wrong, the window is in the wrong place, and there is somebody next to me.

I almost jump out of my skin at the realisation.

It's a man.

I'm unsure how to handle this. It's going to be awkward. I don't know what we did. Is that Marcus? Did I make an ass of myself? Did he take advantage? Should I be embarassed, or angry? Surely I didn't drink that much? Did I? Can I just sneak out and avoid the whole... whatever? This was not how I intended "coffee" to go.

And yet... I'm fully dressed.

Some part of me has already made a decision. I find myself sliding gently out of the bed. I grope in the half light for my shoes. The earliest of early morning sunlight peeking through a gap in the blinds isn't enough for me to see where I'm going and I stumble against the bed, swearing loudly.

Shit shit shit!

It's fine - see, he's not moved. He's a sound sleeper. Heels dangling from one hand, I prepare for the walk of shame. What possessed me to look back?

His eyes are open. The realisation congeals around me in the grey room that he is far too still.

+

Thank you for reading!

Part Four is here:

Unrelated - still time left to have a bash at my dollar challenge: