This Is Me by Emma Nichols

Author:Emma Nichols
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: J'Adore Les Books
Published: 2019-10-04T22:00:00+00:00

9.

Friday is a glorious autumn day. My favourite time of year. Shades of blue infuse a cloudless sky, the air is cool, and the sun is holding its warmth before conceding to the imminent winter greys that constitute our winter. I’m ten minutes early for our rendezvous on the corner of the road, about two hundred yards from my flat. I feel late. My feet dance at the edge of the curb. The old-style, black MX5 with its music blaring, catches my eye long before I realise it’s you in the driving seat. The fluttering of anticipation explodes in my stomach, blinds me to everything that’s not you. Now I can’t even hear the music that assaults anyone in earshot. You’re sassy. Hard arse cool.

I haven’t been myself since our wine bar chat. Time plays dangerous tricks on the craving mind. Sleep evaded me. The image of you obsessed my every waking hour. I wondered about her too. I’d known my ex was having an affair every time it happened. The changes in behaviour can be subtle, and denial is comforting to the insecure soul, but I knew. Are you deceiving yourself to think she doesn’t know about your previous exploits? Or is it simply the cost of compromise on her part, the price she’s willing to pay to keep you? It doesn’t occur to me that she and I might be the same: willing to compromise our needs for your happiness, our sense of security in the balance, our hearts on the line. I feel for her. It’s arrogant of me, pre-emptive. She still has you, and there are no guarantees you’ll leave her for me.

When you look at me and smile, she ceases to exist. You turn the music down and lean over the top of the steering wheel as I clamber into the virtually ground-level car.

“Hi,” you say.

Your tone is sultry. Your beaming smile reflects my own, I’m sure. I’m seduced by the sharp scent of the perfume that cause my nostrils to twitch. It’s freshly applied, too strong really, but eventually it will mellow and sweeten. It reminds me of being in your office, of the warmth of your body pressed close to me, your lips caressing mine. It’s a part of who you are. You identify with that specific scent when really it’s another aspect of the façade behind which you seek refuge from you, like the Rolex that clinks as your fingers toy with the steering wheel.

“Hi.” I click the seat belt into its socket.

You rev the engine, glance across at me, then slam your foot on the accelerator to beat the traffic before the lights turn green.

“I missed you,” you say, your eyes flitting between me and the road.

Those words don’t touch me. I don’t know what that term really means. I’ve been thinking about you, about us. You’re not a possession that I might lose, and the idea of missing you is as alien to me as snow is to the desert. I don’t miss my mother.

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