Late

(Content warning: contains sensitive themes of violence, abuse, death and suicide and some strong language.)

I was late from work, my girlfriend was holding me up. Yesterday was my last day though, so it didn’t matter at all. Nobody was ever expected to be on time or to go in at all past their very last day. In more ideal circumstances of course, there was a notice period and you got leaving gifts, pretty signed cards and you would go for drinks with your colleagues to your usual pub. I wondered what I would get. Some flowers and parting words, something about how much they missed me. I wasn’t sure if anyone would raise a glass, but some might shed a couple tears, and others  would just think me a coward who’d run away. 

Maybe they wouldn’t be incorrect, after all, I only wanted out. I didn’t see this coming, I was blind to this approaching trainwreck, and, if a thing like that creeped up on you, I wouldn’t blame you if you just wanted to get out too. Deep down, I already wanted to leave her,  but I left it too late. Not like it’s an unusual thing for me, to be late I mean. I was always late with all sorts of things: homework, when I was still in school, my tax return as an adult, you name it, therefore it shouldn’t have come as a surprise. But I had no use for hindsight: it’s only another word for regret. It was late to reflect, too. 

My last day was the most ordinary. In the morning, I used my girlfriend’s makeup to attempt disguising the scratches she left on my face, as a consequence of one of her crazy bitch moments, and as a reminder of one of my many mistakes. Namely, the girl next door.

‘Beautiful!’ She kissed me. ‘But piss me off again and you will have to start buying your own foundation, this whole bottle won’t fix your face. Trust me, you don’t wanna spend that kind of money on your stupidity.’ 

I didn’t know how to reply, I didn’t even know how I felt exactly. I wasn’t scared of her, she was much shorter, much weaker than I. Yet, I found myself walking on eggshells, whilst silently being angry at her. I wasn’t allowed to hit a woman, not even a mad one. But how could I let her hit me? Like that? I felt utterly ashamed, and it was my pride that was hurt the most. I hated her for it. I hated her more than anyone else, and somehow, I still couldn’t let go of the thought of us, as we were before, at the beginning. 

I fell for her, hard and fast. She was dancing on top of a table in the crowded club, in short shorts, a crop top and glitter over her face. By chance, I stood by that table when she stumbled and fell, right into my arms with a scream, and laughed, drunk and loud, with her heels and wine glass still in her hands, though the drink got spilled on the way down, mainly over my shirt.

‘You’ve got some muscles!’ She punched my arm with a grin and I put her down with an awkward laugh, but yes, her flattering words stroked my ego.

‘Sorry about your shirt. What’s your name?’

‘Tom.’ I gave her a smile as she looked me up and down and actually, even if I had to bin my shirt I didn’t care: it was so worth this catch.

‘I’m Meg,’ she said, ‘Let me repay you!’

She dragged me to the bar to buy shots and we drank and danced all night, like we had not a worry in the whole world until we finally got kicked out. Her contagious laugh, her confidence, and her unapologetic humour drew me in. Straight away I loved everything about her: her long, bleach blond hair, the way she didn’t try to be cute, how she didn’t hold herself back from having fun, and, out of my own vanity, how she was unapologetically and openly all over me. She wasn’t teasing, it wasn’t the mysterious “what if, you and I”, but a clear “I want you”, hot like hell. Maybe that’s where she was from. I took her home, of course I did, and she kicked me out in the morning, telling me I can go pick her up in the evening for our second date.

Maybe it was her outgoing personality, maybe it was her looks, maybe it was my own pride in being wanted by a pretty woman, maybe it was all that, and the fact we were young and drunk on all the unbridled fun, but I felt happy. It may sound shallow but I was happy and I walked to the tube station with a massive grin on my face.

In a way, being late from work on my last day was just like then, when I was running late, with my shirt buttoned wrong, and my mind on last night’s events, and mainly her. 

It all had come full circle, tightening around my neck.

‘You’re late,’ the manager scolded me, and I stopped dead in my tracks at the tone of her voice. I knew something was wrong with me, feeling thankful like I did, when she didn’t say it in a friendly manner at all. But these exact words from Meg sounded so much worse, I almost wanted to hug this woman for not saying it the same. From Meg it was like ice cracking beneath my feet, on a deep, frozen lake, cold as winter, and followed by days of silent treatment, when I felt like a piece of the furniture. A piece that was unloved, and already on the list of things that were to be taken to the tip, despite how she once chose me, like she chose all the other stuff we had in that little flat we rented. Because I had no taste and everything I owned or wanted was criminally ugly, or so she said. I quite liked my little wonky-legged coffee table, it’s been with me since my college years, but it had to go. Meg showed no empathy towards my sentimental attachment to furniture, clothes or other objects. If she said something had to go, I had to bin it, or else I would find it mysteriously gone soon enough anyway. Objectively speaking? She was probably right. And so, we ended up with fluffy white rugs, her bed, and everything — the sofa, the chairs, the table, even the curtains, plates, cutlery, everything picked by her, even the art that went on the wall, even the socks I was allowed to wear. But did I really care when I got to be the best boyfriend ever and I got to lay on those softest rugs with her and bitch about our mates and colleagues,  and she posted selfies of the two of us with love hearts and cheesy quotes? No, or, not enough. We were all too well matched in the worst way.

For my lunch, I had a three pounds meal deal from Sainsbury’s: a cheese and onion sandwich, a small packet of salt and vinegar crisps and sparkling water. I should have packed lunch, because we were saving for going on holiday to France and Meg kept a close eye on my outgoings, to make sure I stuck to her tight budget. I knew she wanted me to propose to her there, and I wanted that too,  but how was I supposed to buy a ring, when she told me off for buying an unnecessary chocolate bar? Which was only an issue when I bought it for myself. She still enjoyed receiving gifts from me, and I got something almost every day on my way home, to soften her, to melt the ice or tame the fire, depending on whichever form her anger towards me decided to take on. Some days, it was enough. But we had days when I messed up so bad a small gift wouldn’t have made a difference, if I had one on hand.

‘You’re late.’ she said as soon as I closed the door behind myself, her words were like a bucket of ice down my neck. I had a great night, up until that point. My mates were in town so we went to a pub to catch up with a few beers. I could’ve made an excuse and said my phone died, but in truth I just didn’t think to text her.

‘I met the boys, and–’

‘So much for our fucking anniversary.’ She turned her back to me.

As it turned out: I was an idiot, and an awful human being. It’s been a year. A whole year, since we first met, and I never thought of making note of the date. I had no idea, and I had no idea she wanted to celebrate.

For days she refused to talk to me, ignoring my very existence. After a bunch of roses, chocolate and apologies, I was granted forgiveness - on the condition that this can never happen again. I made a note of the date, bought some more gifts, and after a few make up dates and passionate nights we were back to normal, going out clubbing with our friends. It always ended badly in some way, we got too drunk, we got in a fight and were kicked out of the club. Meg and drinking and I, somehow, despite how fun it was at the beginning, just didn’t work anymore. We did stupid things, like calling each other names and getting in fights, and she would always get jealous and possessive. And I, out of spite, would make out with another girl.

The night before my last day It got ugly. Her glittery fake nails left bleeding scratches on my face and I called her a bitch again. We really should’ve broken up then. 

‘See you tomorrow!’ I said bye to my colleagues at the end of my shift as I left, not knowing just yet, that it was my last day, and that I was never going to set foot in that gym, I was never going to receive another minimum wage payslip again.

She went through my phone. Why didn’t I change my passcode, when she was already onto me about the girl next door..? I never had a person in my life who would look through my messages, behind my back. Maybe I thought I could hide a secret in plain sight, and, in my mind, it was not a bad thing, it wasn’t a serious crime… I mean, I wasn’t going to leave her for our neighbour. But I was just plain stupid, wasn’t I? It blew up again, the whole shitstorm argument about it, about how the fuck I dared wasting her time, and looking at other women. 

‘Why don’t you go take her to France?!’ She threw a glass at me and I shoved her when she tried to scratch me again. I told myself I really only meant to get away from her, but it didn’t matter what I told myself about it. Not much mattered at all, after. She slipped on the drink she just spilled all  over the floor and hit her head on the worktop the way down.

I suppose I left that breakup too late.

‘Meg?’

It was the silent treatment again. She didn’t get back up to argue, to slap me, to scream in my face, and when I touched her I knew that whatever made her Meg, her bright smile, her smoky voice, and her fiery passion and jealousy was… no more. She had disappeared and I was left with this... thing. A bloody meat pile. I broke out in a cold sweat.

So after all of this, after all what was said and done between us, I was the bad guy at the end. Fuck. This can’t be. I was so choked up I could barely breathe.

‘Get up!’

No, no, no, no! Hours, I spent in shock, wishing it all to be a nightmare and wanting to wake up, and run away, far far away from here. But it wasn’t a dream. I was done for! How was that fair? I needed to do something. Anything. I had to get rid of her. But there’s no way..! There’s no way I could. My face felt wet and my hands were shaking as I sat on the cold kitchen tiles with her. Patience is a virtue, my ass!

It is overdue, Meg, but it’s time we break up. I waited enough, too long even, and I cannot handle this anymore. It isn’t my fault, I should not have to deal with this! And I will not. I bet you would love to have the last word in this, I bet you would tell me to fuck off and kill myself so you can continue torturing me in hell, so we can have a rematch.

Guess what, love?

The next day, I’m late from work.