Enough

I nudge open the front door and the silence of your absence tumbles towards me in a deafening wave of inevitability. I stumble back, and the door slams, leaving me dithering on the front steps, breathing heavily, unable to cross the threshold and step inside the coffin of our relationship.

One day I will.

Just not today.

#

I cried at work today. Just in case you care. Mary from Accounts found me. The nauseating wave of expensive perfume and clacking heels preceded her presence. Her lips shrinking into a thin, mean line when she caught me leaning against the fridge in the tearoom, sobbing salty, silent tears, and cursing the day you left.

“Enough already,” she said, hands on hips. “Do some work. Move on.”

Move on.

But Mary from Accounts never has loved you. She’s never felt the prickle of excitement spreading over her chest as your tires crunch on the driveway. She’s never had her breath catch in her throat, painful yet sweet, as she traces a finger over your skin, wet and silky, fresh from the shower. She’s never rested her head on your chest in the still of the night, drinking in your musk, your warmth, letting it wrap around her in an embrace that makes her invincible.

No.

Mary from Accounts has never loved you. If she had, she would never suggest such an impossibility as ‘moving on’. 

#

The coat hangers scrape a harsh, grating tattoo as, one by one, I slide a sea of blue jeans two inches to the left. Scrape. Clack. Scrape. Clack. It’s only a rough approximation of shopping, but it’s the best I’ve got.

Did you take her shopping? Giggle in the changing rooms? Tickle her ear with your warm, sweet breath and make promises with your longing gaze? I reach the end of the jeans, and I step to the right, starting on the short summer dresses for women without unsightly scars. Scrape. Clack. Scrape. Clack.

A young shop assistant approaches with the aromatic trademark of youth; cheap spray on deodorant, haunted with undertones of body odour.

“You okay?" she asks.

It’s an interesting question. Am I okay? No. I wouldn’t say I qualify as okay.

“Just looking,” I reply. Just looking for answers. For a reason why. Something. Anything. Nothing.

#

Happy birthday to you.

Happy birthday to you.

Happy birthday dear Jeanie.

Happy birthday to you.

I lean forward, the warmth from the cake’s candles licking my chin. What would my colleagues do if I closed my eyes and pushed my face into those tiny fires? How long would they pause in shock? Would the acrid smell of burnt hair and seared skin jolt them into action? Or would they just stand next to Mary from Accounts, and watch while I burned?

I purse my lips and blow. The fires extinguish. Tendrils of smoke carry the smell of happy childhoods upwards to mingle with the dirt and grime on the ceiling. Everyone claps politely. I swallow. Hard.

You always made my birthday special.

Kora’s sitting next to me, and she’s obviously been tasked with taking charge of my birthday celebrations. I wonder how long they squabbled over that particular short straw. She slides an envelope towards me.

“Open it, hun,” she says, the jaunty jangle of her bracelets a harsh contrast to the somber mood in the tearoom.

“Thanks,” I say. Unconvincingly. But that doesn’t matter. This is just an obligatory birthday celebration, a hoop to jump through to show all members of the team are valued employees.

Are you tucked up somewhere, thinking of me today? Wondering how things would have played out differently if you’d just showed one single fucking ounce of self-control and kept it in your pants?

Yeah, me too.

My colleagues watch silently as I open the envelope, the fridge hums quietly to itself in the background and there’s a nervous tension in the room that I don’t quite understand. I open the card and a voucher falls onto the table.

Oh.

I fumble with my features, trying to arrange my face into a pleasant smile, but I can’t. I stare at the voucher.

I suck in a breath. And another.

“—found it great. She said she loved it, and that the instructor was amazing. Changed her life.” Kora’s talking, glancing at our colleagues, stealing encouraging nods, and raised eyebrows of anticipation. “We thought you might enjoy it. A new hobby, the voucher’s for five classes. If you hate it, then you don’t have to…” she trails off, her face crumbling into desperation as she looks at me.

I swallow. And smile. Big, fake, plastic. Like the woman on the voucher.

“Pole dancing,” I say. “Wow.”

“Pole fit.” Kora is quick to correct me.

Pole fit. What are they implying? Is this a dig about why you left? I press my nails into my palm and the burst of pain brings me back to the now. No, the story they know, and the truth, are not the same. Well, Mary from Accounts probably has her suspicions.

“It’s just for fun. We’re not trying to say anything,” Kora says, her words tumbling out, punctuated with hand gestures and bracelet jangles.

Jill from Sales, nods. “We just thought it could be good for your recovery.”

Recovery. The word stings, and I close my eyes. Recovery. To get better. To be more. Because I am not enough.

Well, they got that right, at least.

I stutter over my words, fumbling for something to say when Ted, the CEO, pokes his head through the gap in the door. The fridge clicks off, and a hush falls over the tearoom. His gaze darts over us, the cake, the opened envelope in front of me, and his expression falls from solemn to positively grim.

“Oh,” he says, the syllable long and drawn, stretching as if it’s also trying to delay the inevitable. “It’s your birthday?” he asks.

I nod.

“I’d like a word, Jeanie,” he says.

Of course he would.

#

Fired.

Because of you.

Apparently, my productivity has been slipping. People have been noticing. People are tired of carrying my weight. He didn’t say it, but he strongly implied people are also tired of my mourning. My mooching. By people, he means Mary from Accounts, obviously.

I stride along the footpath, my flat, black sensible shoes clack out an uneven, lilting tune on the concrete. He’d been careful to stress it wasn’t because of my injury. No, couldn’t have me getting all litigious about unfair dismissal. Nope, just the productivity issues.

And perhaps the mooching.

I glance around and realise I’ve walked quite a distance from the office. I don’t normally come this way. My pace quickens, each foot thumping onto the footpath.

You’re not even here anymore, but you’re still haunting me, snipping the remaining fragile strings of my self-worth. Was leaving me not enough for you? Cheating? Lying? But now you want to take my job too?

Congratulations. You win.

I slam my foot down hard and my useless leg gives way, sending me sprawling onto the footpath. The fire of a thousand suns erupts on my knee, and when I wipe at it, my hand comes away sticky with blood.

I crumple in on myself and cry.

You really do win.

I’m out.

A car passes, and slows, and I watch with growing horror as it pulls to the curb. The thought of any ensuing conversation forces me to my feet, and I give the driver a sheepish wave. She frowns and the car’s reverse lights flick on for a moment as she parks. The breeze picks up, snapping my dress against my calves, and the car door opens.

I stagger towards the small block of shops to my right, desperate to avoid a wellbeing check from a stranger. There’s a pole fit studio in this block of shops. The one from my voucher.

What are the odds of that?

#

I stand outside the studio, blood roaring in my ears, carrying the staticky panic of vulnerability as my mind screams at me to run, hide. My well-wisher approaches, her face crumpled in concern.

"You okay?" she asks. "I saw you—"

"I'm fine, thanks," I say.

She lingers, stepping closer, settling in for a conversation. So, I muster every fiber of my willpower and open the door, slipping inside the studio.

Soft music plays, soulful and tasteful. Bare feet pad on the wooden floor, sending gentle thumps of accomplishment across the room. A class is in progress. Four women. Wearing clothes. A tiny fraction of the tension in my chest eases.

One woman, twisted around a pole, catches my gaze and slides down, her hands squeaking against the metal.

“Here for the three-thirty class?” she asks.

I’m not, but I nod anyway.

“Take a seat. We’ll start soon.”

I sit, heart thumping, ears ringing, and thinking of ways to leave without looking completely crazy. The class ends, and I resign myself to the fact that I'm stuck here. At least I have a voucher.

The women glide out of the studio, with their long, scar free legs, and for one horrifying second, a woman looks like her, your other woman. My stomach tightens. Is this some awful power play? A set up from the ladies at work?

But then she turns and no, it’s someone else. Would she be your type? Would you screw her too, while I’m out of town?

Or is that a special gift you reserved just for Mary from Accounts?  

The instructor approaches, her raptor gaze locks on me. “Your leg’s fucked,” she says. Crude. Vulgar, even. But not wrong. And she’s not talking about the graze on my knee.

I nod.

She pauses, and my skin prickles with goosebumps under the weight of her gaze. “We can work with that,” she says.

Something about her courage, the way she addresses the elephant in the room, compels me to do the same.

“It was a car accident.” I say.

She shrugs, not a woman who dwells. “You can get changed in there,” she says, pointing to a little bathroom in the back. “Then, come warm up.”

I’m wearing a singlet under my work clothes. And large, sensible, black boy short knickers. I won’t look too different from anyone else here. Well, that’s a lie. But my attire will be similar at least.

When I come out of the bathroom, the instructor takes the voucher and smears a slug of white paste on my palm.

“That's grip," she says, gesturing at the paste on my palms, then clapping her hands, gently. "Rub them together like this.”

“I’m not actually enrolled,” I say. “I have a voucher, I just—”

“I know,” she says.

“Sorry?” I ask, surprised.

“There isn’t a three-thirty class.”

My cheeks burn. “Oh, I’m sorry, I’ll just—”

“It’s fine.” She shrugs. “You looked like a queen in need.” 

Her casual kindness catches in my chest, and I’m not sure what to say, so I look down, focusing on rubbing the grip over my hands. It’s gritty and sticky, but unlikely to be the miracle I need right now. It dries as I rub, disappearing into a chalky white residue on my palms that’s not sticky at all.

“It’ll get sticky again when you start to sweat,” she says, nodding at my hands.

When you start to sweat.

The presupposition that this will be hard. That there will be sweat. That it is necessary. The complete and utter faith that I am about to do hard things.

“Reach up tall and grip the pole like a baseball bat,” she says, modeling the move with her hands.

The pole is cold and smooth, steady, and I wonder what brought the women to this pole before me. Probably not avoiding well-meaning strangers.

“Now, bend your knees like you’re kneeling and hang there.”

I do.

It’s hard. Harder than I ever thought possible. My hands slip on the pole, and I squeeze with all the intensity I squeezed the wound on your chest after the accident, when I tried to stop the thick, wet life force flowing from your body.

“Yes, queen,” the instructor says. There’s an edge of surprise in her voice, which she doesn’t mask.

“Now, try again," she says, when I let go. "This time hook your foot, catch the skin on your knee and climb, like this.” She effortlessly climbs the pole in a move that defies physics.

I grip the pole and hook my foot, but my leg gives way and I drop. Frustration ripples through me. “I can’t do it. My leg, it’s...”

“That’s bullshit,” she says, cutting me off. The mental slap of her words makes me draw in a breath. “Try again.”

I try.

And I fall.

She’s undeterred. “Again.”

I fall.

“Again.”

I fall.

“Again.”

“I can’t.” The force of my words surprises me.

“You can,” she says. “Be brave.”

“I can’t. I’m not fearless.”

“I didn’t ask you to be fearless, just brave. Push through the fear.”

It’s an odd concept. But its truth hits me hard.

“You can do this,” she says. “Something’s holding you back from trying.”

She’s right. Something is holding me back.

It’s you.

The weight that I carry, the inability to let you go, bubbles to the surface. My forearms are burning. The skin on my ankle is turning an angry shade of purple. And every time I grip the pole, I think about how I wasn’t strong enough to save you. I lean against the pole and try not to sob. But the tears flow anyway. Then, words follow.

“The car accident,” I say, gesturing to my scar, “I survived. My husband didn’t.”

She waits, her gaze steady, body still, comfortable in my discomfort.

“He told me he was having an affair,” I say. “We were arguing about it when I crashed.”

She nods at me to continue.

“I can’t let it go. I find out my marriage is over and then, bang, he’s gone, and I’m stuck in that moment. There’s no second chance for us. No answers. No closure.”

“That’s a lot to hold,” she says. “Respect, queen.” She rests her hand on my shoulder, her touch warm and smooth.

“I feel so guilty. I don’t know how to grieve. Everyone talks about him as though he’s some hero, but…”

“But, it’s complicated,” she says.

I nod. And finally, the truth I haven't been able to voice, even to myself, emerges. "I wonder if I could have tried harder to save him. If I would have tried harder to save him, if I hadn't been so angry about the affair."

In the warm light of day, my truth seems smaller. I close my eyes, but it doesn't stem the memories. Raw throaty screams, sticky hands caked in warm, coppery blood, tears, gasping breaths, and the overwhelming, all-consuming desperation to save you. No, I tried.

I cough. “God, sorry. This really isn’t appropriate, I—”

She cuts me off again and hands me a tissue. “People come to pole for lots of reasons. Some even have to do with fitness." She smiles. "You’d be surprised what people find out about themselves here.”

She turns to face the pole. “Feel better?” she asks.

I do, actually. My over sharing with a stranger lifts a you-sized weight off my chest. I straighten, lighter now you’re not hanging on my shoulders.

“I can’t fix this for you, queen. But you can learn to lean into the intensity, forge your resilience. Find yourself." She laughs, sincere but a little wry. “Well, for an hour at a time.”

I let her words wrap around me in a hug, and curl my fingers around the pole, hook my foot and catch the skin on my knee.

She nods. “You’re strong, queen.”

I am.

I am strong. I’m not fearless, but I am brave. I reach up high with my other hand and grip the pole. I’m still here. Still alive. And you’re not. I’m leaving you behind. Maybe only for an hour. Is that enough? It’s certainly a start.

I am enough.

And I climb.