Talking at Night

by Claire Daverley

I’d say you just love the idea of her, then, she says. You’re pinning everything on something you’ve never even had. Something that’s not real.

Seasons of good, and bad, and totally fine. Sleepwalking. Routine-making. Life passing like cars. Smells of petrol and bleach and instant coffee. Chest pain, fresh tulips, calories burned and units consumed and late-night noodles out of a pot. Good sex; bad sex. Rude waiters, and crying women, and long phone calls with relatives that expect it but have nothing to say, talk only about the washing, the neighbors, the things outside the window. They do not think of each other. Often. They do not.