My Policeman

by Bethan Roberts

But you know how hard it is to look away when you see something you want.

Back then I was easy to please. Because when you’re in love with someone for the first time, their name is enough. Just seeing my hand form Tom’s name was enough. Almost.

I suspect that you know about desire, about the way it grows when it’s denied, better than anyone.

You considered him, in the same way that others in the room were considering the displays.

L’amour est un oiseau rebelle que nul ne peut apprivoiser,

I always liked the classroom at this time of day, when all the children and the other teachers had gone home, and I’d straightened the desks, cleaned the blackboard and plumped the cushions in the reading corner, ready for a new morning. There was such stillness and silence, apart from the scratching of my pen, and the whole place seemed to soften as the light outside disappeared.

What else can make him real, except for my words on paper? When no one else can know, how can I convince myself of his actual presence, of my actual feelings?

but aren’t objects of beauty there to be worshipped?

I’ve always thought that in a museum people draw into themselves, and yet become more aware of their surroundings.

I had a sudden itch to run after him, kiss his hand and tell him he was braver than any soldier, to wear that much make-up in an English seaside town, even if that town did happen to be Brighton.

But when he died I knew this to be utter folly, because there was no word for what I’d lost other than love. There. I’ve written it.

‘For a policeman, you’re very romantic.’ ‘For an artist, you’re very afraid,’

So you’ll know there was tenderness, as well as pain. So you’ll know how we failed, both of us, but also how we both tried.

that despite everything, you still love him.

‘Of course. It’s the great artwork. The one we’re all trying to imitate.’

I know you can hear me, though. Because when I say the word Tom, your eyes brighten, even now.

I lost him once already.’