In The Morning

“You know,” you say. “I have to be at work in, like, four hours.”

        I look at my wrist, as if I’m wearing a watch. “That’s four hours,” I say. “Nothing to worry about yet. Right?”

        You sigh. “If you say so. I’d like some sleep though,” and you do sound kind of tired.

        “Sleep’s for the weak,” I tell you. “Don’t be weak,” and I slap you lightly on the arm.

        “Whatever,” you say.

        “Besides,” I tell you. “You can take a day off.”

        “Just like that? I have, you know, responsibilities and stuff.”

         I laugh at that. “It’s not like you care.”

        You huff. “Whatever.”

        “Just forget about it,” I tell you. “Why don’t you just relax and enjoy this with me?” I gesture across the field at the pinks and oranges and yellows drifting on the horizon, fuzzy, inconsistent, like smoke, they dance and ripple and transport me.

I remember a time when we were staying by the coast. A small wooden chalet. On stilts. The second step from the top broken so we had to jump to get up. And most of that summer it rained. I say that summer, but it was only a week, maybe ten days. It felt like forever, playing board games and rereading the same two books, both by Roald Dahl, because mum had got them from the library and they were all I’d taken with me. But every morning, the seagulls would wake me early, in my bunk bed near the ceiling, and I’d sneak down and sit outside under the eaves, which overhung the entrance way by a meter or more, wrapped in a blanket and two, three pairs of socks, and I’d watch the sun coming up over the sea. Sometimes it was a giant peach, and I imagined it floating away forever with me on board, to whatever life could offer. Other times it was squashed like the night had stamped on it, and it smeared across the edge of the world as far as I could see. And then on the very last day, it was red, deep and bright and roaring, turning like a wheel that was going to eat the world and I watched it turning and I waited as the daylight ate the night and still nobody stirred through the open door behind me.

I light a cigarette and offer you one, but you shake your head.

        “You sure?”

        And you nod. Fair enough.

“Seriously,” I say. “Take the day off.”

        You laugh. “Do I have a choice?”

        And I laugh too and lean into you. “I guess not.”      

I ask you if you want some music and you shake your head no, which surprises me, but so be it. The quiet is good for me. I was just thinking of you. And besides, as the birdsong gets louder, that’s all we need, right?

I’ve been working so hard recently, it’s nice to get a free night like this, and you know how I like to stay up and see in the next day.

        I’ve been telling you all about how work’s going and asking your advice. I feel like it’s kind of a dead end. To be honest, you’re not much help in the advice department.

        “It is a dead end,” you said, when I turned to you. “It’s a dead end all round. We just have to make the best of it.”

        “But shouldn’t there be more than that?”

        “I don’t know,” you said. “Look at me. I’m no expert.”

        I laughed. You had a point. And we kissed.

        But that wasn’t enough.

        “Don’t you remember when the future was a thing?” I asked.

        “What do you mean by that?” you asked right back.

        I had to think a while. I could feel you watching me, waiting to hear what I said. I wanted to give you something with meaning. “It’s like…” I began and trailed off.

        I noticed you moving towards me, but you stopped. “Like what?”

        “It’s hard to say,” I told you. “To find the right words. But this doesn’t feel right. In school and whatever, there seemed like so much choice. Choice was presented as a thing. Like it’s everywhere. For everyone. But it isn’t. It’s like the pictures you draw on the mirror with your breath. Whatever was there is gone. And every day it feels like there’s doors closing,” I looked at you, so you’d see. “Do you understand?”

        “It’s called being a grown up,” you said.

        That kind of killed the mood for a while.  

You’ve been like this all night. Ever since I picked you up. I don’t know what the problem is and you don’t want to say. I wonder if I should have bothered, if it was worth the effort. But if not, what then?

I’ve been looking forward to tonight all week. I’m not going to let your sour mood spoil it, though it would be nice if you’d open up a little.

I know you feel the same, so it’s hard to tell why you’re not yourself.      

We used to do it all the time, way back when. You know, when we were younger. I’m not sure what happened to us. Where does the time go? We get older, we get jobs, we have responsibility. Life sucks, as my younger self would no doubt have put it. But it’s more complex than that. I thought you’d know what to say to put it all in perspective.

I miss seeing these sunrises. I miss being able to party all night. At least we have each other though.

Somewhere not too far off, the sound of cars, maybe trucks. They’re intermittent, like they have been through the darkness. But now that it’s getting light, they seem more significant.  

You’re lying back now and your eyes are closed. I guess you were tired after all. I lean over you and brush your hair out of your face, put a hand over yours. You open your eyes and we stay there for a while. We’re in daylight now. A new morning. I hadn’t realized how the dew had soaked through the blanket.

        “I guess we should go,” I say, kissing your forehead.

        “We should go,” you repeat, kind of vacant, like you’re not sure where you are. It’s so cute.

        “Are you hungry?” I ask.

        You shake your head. “Not really.”

        “I’ll make you breakfast,” I tell you. “I’ve got eggs. However you want them.”

        “It’s ok,” you say. “I’m not hungry.”

        “You will be later.”

        I pick up my bag. Open it. Check there’s nothing on the ground but the blanket. I check the restraints.

        “Can you drop me off at home?” you ask.

“Maybe later,” I say.

You nod.

        It’s light now. Daylight. People will be getting up. The world will reset. We should get back to the car, I suppose. I pull your cloth back up and try to stuff it in your mouth. When you start to twist your head I push you backwards and lean over you. “You don’t have to do this,” is the last thing you say before I push it between your lips. Gravity helps me to pull it down on either side.

        With the tape in place over the cloth, your eyes are bulging at me again. The sounds you make are barely even squeaks. But they’re deeper. You sound like something, but I can’t put my finger on it.

Pulling you up to your feet isn’t easy. You resist at first, but a quick wave of the taser is enough to get you to play ball. With the end of the choke chain wrapped around my right fist, and the taser in the left, you lead the way back to the car without protest. You stumble a little, walking like you’re drunk, but maybe it’s more that you’re tired.  

        You shake your head wildly when I open the boot, sinking to your knees. You’d probably have your hands together in supplication if they weren’t already bound that way. But it doesn’t matter. It makes no difference. You have to get in. You know it and I do. There are tears in your eyes and I have to look away. I don’t want you to ruin the night.

The noise my Bella makes when she jumps down from a high height, like when she’s up on the kitchen counter. That’s what you sounded like when you made that sound with the tape over your mouth. It occurs to me as I’m driving, off the dirt road through the woods and back onto macadam. Cruising along comfortably with the window open. The air has an icy bite to it. It feels refreshing and new. I don’t go too fast. I want you to be comfortable. I remind myself. I have to remember that; the sound of the cat. I’ll tell you about it when we get back to my place. Maybe I’ll even put her up there so you can hear for yourself. I’m sure you’ll find it funny.