The Strangers We Know by Pip Drysdale

Author:Pip Drysdale
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Simon & Schuster Australia
Published: 2019-11-30T16:00:00+00:00

MONDAY, 11 JUNE 2018 (7.44 AM)

‘Okay, you know how to lock up, right?’ Tess called from the kitchen as she dropped her teacup in the sink with a ceramic-on-metal clang. I was still in bed, staring up at a crack in the ceiling. My tongue tasted of last night’s cigarettes and my head throbbed.

‘Yes, lock from the inside then pull,’ I said, repeating the instructions she’d given me twice in the last three minutes. I craned my neck and squinted out the window behind me. The sky was baby blue and flawless, and the sunshine coming in through the window was warm and the colour of daffodils. How was everything so fucked up? It was summer, when the air smells of sunscreen, jasmine and cut grass. Nothing bad is supposed to happen in summer.

‘And don’t forget the spare key if you go out,’ Tess said, popping her head back into the bedroom as she slipped on a lightweight trench coat.

I turned to her and nodded. With her pixie cut and taupe beige trench she looked like a brunette, tanned version of that American girl in À Bout de Souffle, the one who sells The New York Herald Tribune.

‘Okay, remember coffee is in the freezer. Good luck today. Text me.’ She picked up her briefcase and with a bang of the door she was gone. The flat was cold and silent without her there but it still smelled like her perfume: rose incense. I reached for my phone and turned it off airplane mode. I expected an apology to be waiting for me. A voicemail. Something to make me feel less sick.

But nothing.

And so I scrolled through to the app to see when Oliver had last been online.

I went to my messages, searching for his photo on the left hand side to click through to his profile. But his messages were gone.

His profile had been deleted.

Which made sense after that fight and my threat of sending a screenshot to his mother. But my insides ached as the night before came tumbling back, I let out a small moan, rolling over and closing my eyes.

I lay there, trying to avoid thoughts, dozing fitfully for a good hour or so. I imagined him doing all the things he always did in the mornings: turning on the Nespresso machine, having a shower, picking out a shirt. Did he even miss me? Why hadn’t he called?

It was just before nine that a need for caffeine finally got me out of bed and I trudged to Tess’s kitchenette, big sulky footsteps. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. I reached for the cupboard above the sink and pulled out a mug, then flicked on the kettle while the night before ran in a loop through my mind: his Peroni, me threatening to text his mother, my head hitting the plaster, his hand over my mouth, the scratch on his face. That would have left a mark. How will he explain that at work? My face grew hot. Shame.

Shame at still being triggered after all this time.

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