Moving On

She woke up, disconnected. He was still in bed. The seat she’d slept on had been uncomfortable, she should be used to it by now, still loathed its narrowness. She switched overhead lights on, stepped down into the kitchen area.

She filled the kettle, clicked the gas on, put the kettle to boil. This morning, she left its whistling spout cap on. Hearing him stir she snapped the blinds up. More light more noise she didn’t give a damn. She found her teacup, dropped a teabag and two sugars in. Ordinarily she’d get his mug too, prep it. As the kettle started whistling, she went into the bathroom.

She heard him swearing, lump out of bed, switch the gas off, make a showy noise of slamming his mug onto the countertop. ‘I’ll make my own tea this morning then, shall I?’

‘Oh, you’re up’ she said as she reappeared, ‘do you want tea?’

‘I’m making one.’

‘Ok. I’m packing.’

He turned around, ‘Packing what?’

Ignoring his face, she reached into a cupboard behind him, pulled out a roll of black bin liners ‘My things.’

Pulling one bag off the roll she made eye contact. ‘Last night you told me, again, to get out of your fucking bed out of your fucking truck. That’s the last time.’

He opened his mouth as if to speak. She continued, ‘You’ve made it clear, time and time again, that this is your truck, your bed, your everything. Last night as I got into bed you accused me of kneeing you in the back. I didn’t knee you in the back I just tried to curl my legs up. The other night you accused me of punching you in the face when we were in bed. I didn’t punch you in the face I literally just stretched my arm out in my sleep. You shoved me away so hard my head banged on the wall. A few nights ago, you accused me of trying to rape you when I tried to initiate sex. It’s not my duty to service you whenever you want you said, I'm not a sex toy. The other night when I broached the subject of how you’re no longer physically affectionate towards me you tapped me on my leg with your foot, said you hoped that was enough affection for me because that was all I was getting. You’ve ridiculed and belittled me in front of other people, she doesn’t speak Spanish she doesn’t like raw olive oil she doesn’t want to let her hair go grey even though she’s getting on a bit.’

‘So, it’s all to do with sex then.’

‘Christ.’ She turned her back on him, opened a clothes drawer pulled out its contents to put them in the bag. She did the same with two more. Next, the wardrobe, another bag full. ‘I’ll need my winter clothes from the boot’ she said, ‘they’re in the black box. Can you get it, or shall I?’

‘Fuck this.’ He pulled on his clothes, went outside, unlocked the cab, switched the engine on.

They’d arrived at this place last night, were on their way towards Casablanca to spend Christmas with some of her family before heading into the Sahara for New Year. They’d been living in the truck since May, travelling abroad since September.

It had taken them sixteen weeks to convert an old army truck into their overlanding motorhome. She’d surrendered all stabilities to do it. He’d surrendered some. He’d paid for most of it, financially she’d been unable to contribute anything other than the proceeds from selling her furniture and car, basically everything she owned except for a few little bits she’d known would be useful as they travelled. She turned her packing attentions to those things now, almost fell over as without warning, the truck started moving.

‘Fuck’.

She steadied herself, knelt on the floor to reach into the cupboard under the sink, pulled out three plastic boxes housing various items. Emptying each one straight into the cupboard she found her things, replaced them into a box. Next, she pulled out all her kitchen items, wrapped fragilis in kitchen roll before packing into the other two boxes.

He was driving faster now, two knives jumped off the magnetic wall strip, stabbed on the floor beside her.

‘Fucks sake’. She picked them up, threw them into a cupboard.

Driving the truck this fast on uneven ground was dangerous, reckless, threatened to snap the chassis, ground them. She wondered if maybe that’s what he was hoping for. Unable to stand or even kneel safely she was forced to stop packing, climbed up onto the bed to wait.

The road they’d come off to reach their remote park up couldn’t be that far away now. She’d no idea where they were going. All she knew was there’d be no going back.

It would hurt to leave him and this life, she knew that. But she'd been hurting for weeks now, felt lonely and sad, unwanted. She couldn’t remember when they stopped holding hands, he’d told her he’d only hold hands if she didn’t interlink her fingers with his, he didn't like that. Neither could she remember when they’d stopped hugging, touching each other. He’d told her physical affection made him feel uncomfortable, was unnecessary.

Memories of him sitting beside her on the seat stroking his own chest, legs and arms often for the entire duration of a film made her gut turn. He did like physical affection, just not from or with her anymore. He wanted to go back to South America, the women there he said are sexy, beautiful. Jealousy had planted inside her, a feeling of being inferior to every other woman on the planet, ones they met, saw on the street, even those they watched on TV. 

The truck came to a sudden, lurching halt. Seconds later he flung the door open. ‘You need to get in the cab. There’ll be police checks on the road.’   

Numbly, she made moves to do as he said. ‘Okay’.

But it wasn’t okay. And as they glanced at each other like strangers do, this time, they both knew it.