Listening Post
Are you listening? His voice was soft, almost apologetic. Almost. Helen, Im talking to you, can you even hear me?
Of course, I heard him. Always did. Even during the silences, when days stretched into weeks with no calls, I could almost feel a faint echo of him in the air of my flat. Like the scent of his coffee lingering, or the faint mark of his cup on the window sill, or the way the kitchen chair was slid back at just the wrong angle.
I hear you, Graham.
Then why arent you saying anything?
Im thinking.
He sighed. I knew that sigh by heart; heavy, a bit raspy, as if filtered through something knotted up inside. Graham always sighed like that when he wanted sympathy but never knew the right words to ask.
Ive got nowhere else to go, he said. You understand? Nowhere at all.
I stood by the window and looked out at the street. March in London. Grubby snow along the kerb, fat pigeons huddled on the drainpipe opposite, a woman with a pram stuck circling a puddle. Nothing special, just a city in March. But something inside was quietly, inexorably, flipping over. Like turning a page. Like turning a key in the lock.
Come on in, I said.
That was it. Three words. Everything began again.
Graham was fifty-three, I was fifty-one. Wed known each other since he was wearing checked shirts thinking they were cool, and Id worn thick plaits and thought being invisible was a virtue. We were introduced by mutual friends, one of those late-night flat kitchens in Brixton, cheap Sainsburys wine, arguing about books no one had quite finished. Graham was the rowdy one, laughing so loud you could hear him down the hall. Once, with a grand gesture, he knocked someones plate clean off the table. I picked up the pieces and thought, heres a man who fills a place just by walking in. I wondered what that was like.
I was the other sort. Quiet. One of those people you dont notice straight away, but dont quite forget. At least, thats what I liked to think.
He didnt fall for me, though. He fell for Nicola. It was obvious and inevitable, like a thunderstorm after a heatwave. Nicola was brilliant, fast-talking, laughed even louder than Graham, walked into rooms and turned heads. Next to her, I always felt like a watercolour beside an oil painting. Not worse, just… different.
They collided fast and unravelled faster. I watched from the sidelines for years. Splitting, making up, splitting again. Nicola would make a scene, Graham would slam the doorback and forth. Like a seesaw that never rested.
And between the ups and downs, there was me.
The first time he came after their first big breakup, he called late, his voice flecked with something I couldnt quite place. Can I come over? I said yes. I made him a cup of teaalways with a sprig of mint, and I put out something to eat. We sat up till two. He talked, I listened. Easy thing for me. I was good at listening.
He slept on my sofa that night. In the morning, he had his coffee, thanked me, and left. Two weeks later, he was back with Nicola.
I wasnt bitter. I put the throw in the wash, folded it up, and got on.
It happened again and again. Hed show up after arguments, sometimes for an evening, sometimes for days. Wed have our tea, chat, hed calm down, get himself together, head back to Nicola. Each time, to her, always her.
I never called it love. I was too scared to label it. But when he rang my bell, Id get that little pinch in my chest, and then a release. He was here. Mine, but just for a bit. Then hed go.
Sometimes I thought of myself as an air traffic controller. The planes come in, refuel, and head out. And the tower just stays put, always ready, always waiting.
This time, he came late March, with a big sports bag slug over one shoulder. Blue, battered, with half its white logo worn away. One glance and I knew: he wasnt here for just a night or two.
How long? I asked, as he took off his coat by the door.
Not sure, he said. At least he never lied. Maybe a week. Well see.
All right. Kettles on.
I filled the kettle. Fished out the mint. He sat at his spot in my kitchenlong since claimed as hisby the window, back to the fridge. I set the mug before him and for a moment felt neither joy nor disappointment. Just a warm sort of melancholy.
Is it that bad? I asked.
Worse. He cupped the mug in both handsthey were always cold. She said shes tired. Were only making each other miserable.
What did you say?
Nothing. Grabbed that, he nodded to the hall, and left.
I said nothing. Raindrops ticking on the window ledge outside, steady as a metronome.
Helen, he said, looking at me for the first time all evening, arent you happy to see me?
I am. And it was true. Sadly, a bit shamefully so, but true.
Those first days were strangenot bad, just a shift. I was used to living alone, my own pace and hush. Up at seven, brewed coffee, read half an hour by the window, off to work by eight-thirty. Home at six, something simple for dinner, maybe a call to my friend Pam. Bed by eleven.
Graham threw that all off. Not out of malice, just his way. Up later, wanted to chat over breakfast when my head was already at the office. Left things everywhere. Blasted the telly. He always took longer in the shower.
But evenings together were good. Really good. Hed make me laughproperly laugh. I made a lasagne from a battered cookbook and he went back for seconds, honest-to-God thirds, saying it was the best meal hed had in years. We watched old films and bickered about the endings. Sundays, we strolled down the market for veg, swapped daft jokes and shared a carrier bag heavy enough to make me breathless with a simple, old comfort.
A week rolled by. Then another. Then a month.
One night, lying awake listening to him breathe through the wall, I wondered: perhaps this is real? Maybe this is it. We both knew loneliness. Wed had enough years of it, knew each other through and through. Maybe this is happinessnot brilliant, not wild, but sturdy, like an old house that just stands.
I told Pam, over coffee, in our usual place in Soho. She listened, sipping her flat white. When I finished, she was quiet a moment.
Helen, she said gently.
I know what youre going to say.
Do you?
That this wont last. That hell go. That it always ends that way.
Pam fiddled with her spoon. Actually, I wanted to ask something else. Are you happy now? Not in someday, but now?
I thought about it, for real. Not for giving the right answerjust to know.
Yes, I said at last. Right now. Yes.
So live now, Pam smiled. Stop fast-forwarding the tape.
I tried, honestly.
We lived four months together: April, May, June, July. Four months I remember nearly day by day. When the lilac bloomed and he brought me a bunch. The silly row, cant even recall why, and after two silent hours, he walked in and said, You were right. The Saturday we never left the flathe was tinkering on the balcony, me with a book, the shared hush so gentle I worried a word would break it.
I started thinking we. Not, Ill go, but well go. Not I need, but we need. It crept in. I let it.
He changed a bit too. Less angry. Talked less about Nicola. Sometimes he looked at me with a warmth Id never seen in his eyesneither pity nor gratitude, but something else. Perhaps the thing Id been waiting for all this time.
He asked for a spare key. I didnt hesitate. Popped into Timpsons, got one cut, slid it to him over the table. Just a cold scrap of metal, but it warmed me through.
That was early July.
Mid-July, the phone rang.
I was in the kitchen, he in the front room with his laptop. His mobile shrieked. I didnt listen in. Then quiet. I could feel itthe hush that means somethings changed but you dont know yet what.
I stepped out. He stood, phone limp in hand, staring at some spot on the carpet.
Graham? I called.
He met my eyes and I knew. Not in my head. Somewhere deeper.
Nicola, he said. Shes in trouble. Serious. Shes on her own and needs my help.
That was it. No speeches, just one word: Nicola.
I see, I said.
Helen
Go.
Please, let me explain
No need, I said quietly. I understand. Go.
He waited a minute, looked at me, I looked at him. Then he picked up the blue bag from the hallitd been there the whole time, as if it knew this was coming.
Ill call you, he said at the door.
All right, I answered.
The door shut. The lock clicked. I stood in the hush that filled everything, now all absence.
For three days, I didnt cry. Odd, really. I expected tears, braced for them, but nothing. Just this: like moving an old chest youve had for years and there’s a pale patch on the floor and emptiness in the air. Not painnot yet. Just shaped nothing.
At work, I was fine. Im an accountant in a mid-sized construction firm, and numbers dont care how you feel. They just require balance.
Day four, I made that same lasagne. No idea why. I just did. Same recipe, same tray. Served a slice, ate it. It tasted fantastic. So good it hurt.
Thats when the tears came. Over lasagne, alone, at our kitchen table. I cried long and messily, like a child. Then washed up, finished my tea, went to bed.
Pam dropped by the next day, uninvited. Called from downstairs: Buzz me in, Ive got bread. She gave me a hug. We stood in the kitchen, silent. Id finished crying. Apparently, it all ran out in the lasagne.
So, tell me, she said.
Theres nothing to tell. You know the story.
I do. But you should say it. Out loud.
I told her about July, the call, the blue bag, his Ill call. He never did, by the way. Its been over a week.
You going to wait around? Pam asked.
No, I said. I surprised myself how easy it was.
Really?
Really. Im done. Ive spent my life waitingcalls, visits, decisions. He never chose. Just came back when he had to. Dyou know what they call that?
What?
Back-up runway. I was his back-up runway. Always ready, always available, lights on, path clear. Hed swoop in whenever, knowing he could land.
Pam looked at me.
When did you realise?
Knew for years. But I only just got it.
Knowing and understanding are worlds apart. You can know for ages and act as if you dont. Understanding is when theres no going back.
August passed in a strange daze. Not gloomyjust muted. I worked, read, went for evening walks along the Thames till my legs ached. Watched reflections in the water. Looked at people, at pairs and loners. Thought about lots.
Stopped at a shop window once and caught my reflection. Just saw: a woman in a light mac, hair tied back. Not young, not old. Tired but upright. I looked at her for ages. What do you want? Not Graham, not this. You. What do you want?
Didnt have the answer. Just asking meant something.
September, I shifted the furniture around. Just started with the sofain the wrong spot, blocking the light, making the room smaller. Pushed it somewhere better. Moved the bookshelves. Spruced the whole lot. The room felt lighter, more open. I stood there and thought, why didnt I do this sooner?
Probably because I was frightened of change. Scared hed turn up and complain.
Now, I wasnt scared of anyone.
Bought new curtains. Linen, creamy, little pattern. The old ones were navy, heavy, swallowed up the sun. In the mornings, the new ones made the room gold and warm. Never noticed that beforegolden mornings, after fifty-one years.
October, I finally signed up for Italian. Long wanted it, always found an excuse. What would I do with Italian? Turns out, a lively class with all sortsour teacher barely older than my nephew, full of jokes, made us sing old Italian songs out loud. I did. Belted out Torna a Surriento, even though Ive never been near Sorrento.
Pam was baffled.
Italian? she asked on the phone.
Italian.
Why?
I want to go to Barcelona, I said.
Helen, they speak Spanish there.
I laughed. I know. But Italians prettier. Close enough.
Half-true, but I liked having something just for me.
Barcelona found its way into my plans one evening online. Not the postcard streetsjust markets, old men reading papers, a ginger cat on a window ledge. It clicked. I wanted to go. Not as a quick tour, but to actually live a littlelight, stone, the air that smells of oranges and sea.
I took a notepad, wrote: Barcelona. Spring. Stuck it on my fridge, stared at it every morning.
November brought in the cold. I got a swimming pass, started mornings at the pool before workjust thirty minutes, but it set my day. In water, theres only forward motion. Good for the soul.
Id think of Graham sometimes, not often. I wondered: How is he? With Nicola? Happy? I never wished him ill. Honestly, I didnt. It felt like looking at an old photographthe faces familiar, the feelings changed. Gone but not erased.
December, Pam invited me to New Years at her mates. Nearly dodged, but then went. Met new people, laughed, sipped prosecco. At midnight, when everyone hugged, I feltnot alone, but light, as if something Id dragged forever had finally been set down.
January, February. I kept swimming, learning Italian, reading the books Id always put off. Cleared the loft. Found the old throwthe one Graham used the first time he slept on my sofa. Put it out to charity. May as well warm someone else now.
March again. Exactly a year from Graham with his blue bag at my door.
I stood by the window, morning coffee in hand. The same streets, the same pigeons. But I was someone new.
He called that Saturday around noon. Graham, flashed on my phone. My chest flickereda vestigial echo, not pain or joy. Just something faint.
I picked up.
Helen, he said. That voice, both familiar and foreign. Its me.
I know.
How are you?
Im well. You?
Pause.
Not great. Can we meet?
I gave it a beat. We can. Where?
Could Icould I come up?
No, I said, calmly. Lets meet outside. Ill be down in twenty minutes.
He didnt see that coming. All right. The entrance, then.
Finished my coffee, slipped on coat and boots, checked myself in the hall mirror. Woman in a silver-grey mac. Calm, ready.
He was already waiting. Thinner, a bit olderor maybe I just saw differently now. He looked at me with old hope and embarrassment.
Hello, he said.
Hi, I replied.
We walked, slowly, side-by-side. Like people with talk to get through, not a place to get to.
Helen, he started, theres something I need to say. Properly.
Say it.
Its been an awful year. Nicolas gone. Not meher. The works gone pear-shaped, too. Business folded. Ive nothing left.
I let him speak, didnt interrupt.
I thought about you, a lot. Realised… I had something real, and didnt value it. That youre the truest person in my life.
Graham I said.
No, please. Let me finish. I want to try again. Really try. Im different now. Ive changed. His voice was bare, hopeful. Will you give me a chance?
Wed reached the old horse chestnut by the fencethe buds just out, spring readying itself.
I stopped.
He paused too, looking at me.
You look beautiful, he said. Even more than last year. Hows that?
I smiled a little. It happens.
Helen. He took my hand. Please.
I looked down at it. Familiar, warm. The hand Id wished to hold for years.
I slipped my own out, gently.
Graham, please understand. Dont be hurtjust understand. Can you?
Yes, he said.
You say youve changed. I believe you. A years a long time. But it isnt really about you. Its about me.
What dyou mean?
Ive changed too. Differently. You lost things and want them back. I found somethingand dont want to lose it.
His face flickered with worry.
What did you find?
Me. I found myself.
Helen…
I stopped him quietly. Please. Im not angry. Not at all. We go back too far for that. But I need you to hear this: all these years, I was just your backup runway.
He opened his mouth but I carried on.
Youd land when stuck. Id be there, welcoming, lights blazing, safe. You always left, though. Nicola was the showy airport, I was the quiet patch off route. Reliable, but never the main event.
Thats not true, he mumbled.
It is, and you know it. But heres whats changed: that runways closed. Ive closed it. Not out of spite, just because I dont want to be anyones backup. Not for anyone, even a good man. You are good, Graham. Truly.
He was quiet. For a long time.
What now? he asked, softly.
Now? I have plans. Spain in spring, Italian classes (though they speak Spanish there), swimming in the mornings. Im living in a flat with new curtains and shifted furniture, reading the books I always meant to. My life. Not big, not flashybut its mine. No room for someone just because theyve no other place to go.
What if Im here because its you? he tried.
I just looked at him, for a long time. Maybe it was true. But I couldnt test it anymore.
Maybe, I said softly. But I cant test it, not now. That Helen, the waiting one, shes not here anymore. The one whos here… she lives differently.
He stepped closer. Please, just let me try.
No, I said. Gently, not unkind, but firm. Not from cruelty. Not to punish. Just becauseI know how it goes. I know too well.
We stood at the entrance. Same spot, different year. But I was someone else.
Not even for a cup of tea? he asked, quiet.
No.
Why?
Because tea with mint that means something. A beginning. Theres to be no beginning.
He hung his head. Looked up again.
Are you happy? he whispered.
I thought, really thought.
Yes, I answered. Here, now, yes.
Thats good, he said. I think he even meant it.
We stood a moment longer.
Ring me sometimes? he asked. Just to talk.
I shook my head. No need, truly. Each of us has our own way now.
He nodded then, as though finally accepting something it hurt to accept.
Barcelona? he smiled, wistful.
Barcelona, I said.
Beautiful city.
I know, I said, though Id never been. I know.
He turned and walked away. Didnt look back once. I watched, the man Id known thirty years, loved far too long, and now, I was letting him gonot with pain, but with something like calm.
As you let a bird go, because its always longed to fly.
I went inside. Climbed up to my flat, turned my own key. Smelled coffee and linen curtains, saw the band of morning sun on the new couch.
Put the kettle on. Just mint, not thyme. A new habit, just mine.
Took the note off my fridge, the one that said: Barcelona. Spring.
Added: April. April was close.
Runway’s closed. The listening towers gone dark. Im finally boarding my own flight.
***
But it wasnt all instant. Before this year, before that doorstep and that final talk, there was a full yearone that remade me gradually. Every month reshaped something in tiny, unnoticed turns.
When Graham left that July night with his blue bag, I didnt grasp it immediately. Well, my mind did, but somewhere deeper, I refused. Couldnt fathom being left, yet again.
Initially, I carried on as always. Wake up, work, home, dinnerjust for one now, which felt odd, as Id spent four months cooking for two. Always made too much. I put away his big old blue mugthe one with the chipped rim. Hed forgotten it. Or left it. I wasnt sure.
I stashed it at the back of the cupboard. Couldnt throw it out. Not yet.
On the fifth day, Mum called. She lives outside Oxford. We talked every Sunday, but today was Wednesday.
Helen, is everything all right? She always had this radar for trouble.
Fine, Mum.
You dont sound it.
Tired, bit of work hassle, thats all.
Pause.
Hes left, hasnt he?
I nearly laughed. Good old mum, with her sixth sense.
How did you know?
Im your mother, love. I know. Are you okay?
I am, Mum. Honestly. Not great, but I am.
Want to come and visit?
No thank you. I need a bit of time here.
All right. But promise to ring if it gets heavy.
I promise.
But it never did, not in the way Mum feared. There was a hollow, a kind of heaviness to my solitudethe kind that comes from realising you chose it after all. But no urge to call him back. Odd, really.
Id always known Nicola wasnt history. She was his orbit; I just didnt want to admit it.
End of July, I booked a haircut. I always went to the same woman, Suegood hands, gentle. She studied me in the mirror and just said, Whatll it be?
Short, please. Much shorter.
She lifted an eyebrow. How much shorter?
Shoulder-length. Oh, and can we lighten the colour a bit?
I stepped out two hours later, different somehow. Not totally, but enough. Lighter.
On the street, Mrs. Hopkins from next doorseventy if shes a dayspotted me at once.
Helen! My word, you look wonderful. Like a new woman.
Just a haircut, Mrs. Hopkins.
Suit you, love. Took ten years off at least.
Oh, come on.
I mean it! Always a sign, a woman changes her hair, means somethings going on. Good or badbut something.
Both, I said.
Well, as long as youre not standing still, she declared. Wise woman, Mrs. Hopkins.
August was blazing. For the first time in three years, I took a proper fortnight off work. Stayed home, wandered the city, discovered corners Id always ignored. Theres a tiny botanic garden near where I liveId walked past it for years, never gone in. Went this time. It smelled of earth and flowers I didnt know the names of. Sat with a paperback on a bench for ages, or with nothing at all, just watched the sun move on the grass.
Thats living, I thought. Not empty, not dulljust being.
One morning, an older woman sat next to mejust asked, bench was busy. She introduced herself as Margaret, a retired history teacher. Grown-up kids, lives alone, reads a lot, content. No performance to her solitudejust, she is. We chatted about books, about the weather. Saw her a few more times. We werent friends, not exactly, but it was nice: knowing a person youd like to just sit beside in silence.
September came; I shifted the furniture aroundsofa, shelves, armchair. Room breathed out at last. Finished, I stood by the window, mind wandering: Graham, Nicola, their lives now. Hope its good for himwhy waste energy on bitterness when I could use it elsewhere?
Octoberback to Italian class. Group of all sorts: student, a retiree, a woman about my ageJanejust keeping herself busy. Jane and I hit it off, went for coffee after class one evening.
Why Italian? she asked.
I want to go to Barcelona.
She roared, But thats Spanish!
I know. I just like Italian. Nearly the same.
Cant argue with that.
Thats how you make friends after fifty, apparently: laughing at your own oddness.
Movies with Jane, exhibition, lazy catch-ups. Life brings you new people if you let it.
November, December, JanuaryI swam, read, found an old journal from uni, laughed at my old ambitions and fears. Scribbled at the bottom: Alls well. Youll be fine.
Put it back in the drawer.
Februaryearly thaw. Rain, pavement rivers, the air nearly spring-like. Found a tiny bookshop Id missed for years. Bought a novel, a guide to Barcelona. Owner, a stooped man in glasses, nodded at my stack:
Change, thats what this ones about. Changing.
Seems right, I said.
Read the Barcelona guidebook in two days, dreamt of orange trees and tiled streets. Booked the tripApril. Small flat near the market, cheap but with a tiny balcony. When Id paid, got the email confirmation, I felt delight. Clean, clear, like opening the curtains on a bright day.
My trip. Just mine. For once, not anyone elses plans. Just because I wanted to.
Brave, Pam said, hugging me. But its right.
Want to come?
She smiled. Not this time. You do this on your own, love.
Good old Pam.
March, called Mum: Im going to Barcelona in spring.
She fretted. On your own? What if?
Mum, Im fifty-one.
She sighed. I know. I raised you, remember?
So you know Ill manage.
You always do. Take photos and call me when you land.
Promise.
Thats life, I thought. No drama. Booked tickets, phoned Mum, promised pictures. Theres something precious in ordinary things. I never saw it before.
After fifty, relationships arent about catching someone anymore. Its about choosing yourself. Pick yourselfdeliberately, daily. Not because theres no one else, but because you realise you cant give what you havent got.
Id lived on when he… When hed come, stay, decide. Life just slid past while I waited for a green light to start. No one gives you permission. You have to just grab it.
It took time. Felt like warmth after snowgentle, then more, till you notice one day youre not cold.
People dont change, were told. But I did. I closed a door, quietly. When Graham rang this March, I was tidying cupboards, boxing up things unworn for years. Saw his name, spent a moment thinking, then answered.
You know the rest: the walk, the talk, the back-up runway speech. But heres what I didnt say before.
As he talked, I watched him, thinking: hes a good man. Not cruel, not even selfish. Just weak, where Nicolas concerned. Drawn to her blaze, as I was drawn to his. It isnt a crime; its just who he is.
And I could pity himfeel sorry, hug him evenbut still say no.
Thats wisdom, I think. Not coldness, not steel-hearted. Its feeling, but not dissolving.
Years back, sympathy always meant: open the door, put the kettle on, let pain in. Not now. Now I could stand beside someones misery without it pulling me under.
He walked away down the street. Didnt look back. I watched and thought: may he find something of his own. Not Nicola, not me. Hes only fifty-threenot too late.
I climbed the stairs, let myself into the sunshine. Curtains open, room open. My note on the fridgeBarcelona, now with April scribbled in.
Made tea. With mint. My white mug, not blue.
Texted Pam: He came. All fine.
She replied instantly: Knew youd manage. Im proud.
Messaged Jane about the cinema. Count me in! Where and when?
I smiled. Poured my tea, took out my guidebook to Barcelona. Less than a month to go.
The runways closed. Lights dimmed. This next flights mine.
And as that plane takes off in April, it carries just one passenger at last. The one who stayed on the ground for years, holding the gate open for everyone. The one who now bought her own ticket, stood at the queue.
Her names Helen. Shes fifty-one. Barcelona is next.
***
The kettle boiled. I scooped mint leaves into my new pot, waited, poured a cup. Not the old blue chipped mugmy white one, bought at Christmas, thin-rimmed, perfect.
Carrying my mug, I leaned by the window. March in London again. Less slush now, more sunlight, pigeons cooing on the sill. A new woman pushing a pram, laughing into her phone.
I watched the world, sipped my tea.
This story is just about love, really. Or what you find after it. How long you can love the wrong way, and thenin coming back to yourselffind something unspeakably good.
How do you move on? By shifting the furniture. Buying new curtains. Learning a language, going swimming, wandering a bookshop, letting yourself not wait.
Not waiting.
Thats the hardest, simplest thing. Stop living on pause. Start being here.
Forgive or forget? No one asked, but Ive thought about it. Forgivenot because its noble, but because resentment is heavy and I want to travel light. Forgive and keep the memory, light as dust, not as baggage.
I finished my tea. Washed the mug, went to my desk, opened the laptop. Confirmation page, flight to Barcelona, April.
I grinned, for myself.
One month. One month till Im off to the city where the light is different, where oranges scent the air, where ginger cats watch the world go by, indifferent.
Family values, they say. For me, it starts at home. With yourself. When youre enough inside, you stop scrambling for approval outside.
Ive waited. Long enough. Im done waiting.
Phone pingedJane, with the cinema details. I replied: Brilliant, see you there.
Checked my reflection. Just mehair tousled from walking, something steady in my eyes. Not happy in the film sense. Just steady.
Nodded at myself in the glass.
Film with Jane tonight. Italian tomorrow. Swim the day after. Barcelona in a month.
Life rolls on. Real, mine at lastnot interrupted by anyone elses arrivals or departures. My own, blooming, lived.
Runway closed.
And somewhere, far above these rooftops, through the March clouds soft with coming April, you have to imagine: my planes rising.
Im flying.
That night, after the film and drinks with Jane, after arguing and laughing about the ending, I came home, unlaced by the door, and remembered: the old blue mugs still in the cupboard. The one he left. I took it out, turned it over in my hands.
Just a mug. Blue, with a chip. Thats all.
I put it back next to my white one. Let it be. No symboljust a mug.
Then I got ready for bed. Read a while about someone elses transformationpage after page, real change creeping in. One day, you realise youre not the same.
Turned out the light. Outside, a gentle March drizzle. Soft, untroubled rain.
I lay in the dark and listened. It was peaceful, inside and out. Not lonely, but calm. Like when everything is finally in its right place.
Italian tomorrowthe teacher will make us sing again, and so I will, with all my voice.
Swimming after. Just movement, just now.
Barcelonaone month.
And now, this rain, and this dark, and it feels good.
Eyes closed.
And into my mind, as I drifted, came the imagean April morning courtyard, light flooding in, an orange cat on the windowsill. Me, with coffee, watching her, she watching me. And both of us, in our own quiet way, perfectly content.
The back-up runway is closed.
Clear for takeoff.
