KATE A story inspired by the new hit series Dates Written by Jamie Chan

She lies on her side, her silky black hair spread across the white pillow. She wraps an arm around me and pulls me close, her eyes sealed tight, a weak smile on her glistening face. I'm addicted. The smell of her pulls me back to the morning we woke up together in that hotel room. And as her eyes begin to open, I quickly close mine; flip abruptly onto my back and edge towards my side of the bed. My body sinks into the attress as I drift off with the memory of Erica. "It's Erin," she says pointedly. Her words jab at me and I recoil, pulling the sheets up around me. After a stretch of silence, I grunt, pretending I'm halfway into a deep sleep; too tired to muster an appropriate response. Nor do I feel the need to. After all, I'm not being asked a question. "Not Erica. Erin," she presses, unsatisfied. Now I'm annoyed. Nothing displeases e more than being repeated to; it's worse than repeating myself. "Well, which do you prefer?" I ask casually. "I prefer my actual name," she says tersely. I feel the sheets tug tight as she turns to switch on her bedside lamp. A flash of crimson orange penetrates my eyelids like I'm under a microscope. "And who do you think about when you're with your husband?" I reply calmly, not moving. My brows pinch into a furrow as I reluctantly open my eyes. Reality pulls into focus. The room is dimly lit, the air warm and musky, the windows still dark. I bury my head into the pillow: the smell of freshly warmed linen, edged away by the stink of sweat, sex and alcohol escaping from our pores. I know she cleans this room with every time I leave, changing the sheets, matching the duvet covers with pillowcases. I like that she does this; the room is beautifully clean again, like I was never here. After nearly a month of sleeping together, there's not a trace of me in this room. I offer a strained apology as I reach for my jeans. I fish around in my pockets before straightening myself out on the bed, a fresh cigarette hanging off my lip. "Honest mistake," I add with a deliberate double-flick of my lighter. She hates it when I smoke, but the sadistic side of me compels me to do it anyway - just to see if I can get away with it. You see, I figure, if someone can still find a way to tolerate me, to desire me, in spite of myself, then perhaps I'm not so fucked up after all. "Kate," she starts." "I know. I know..." I say, cutting her off. I hop out of bed in a huff as though she's in the wrong for inconveniencing me. I walk to her side of the bed, ram my feet into her slippers and hastily wrap myself in her red robe. I scuff across the room to the balcony. I light the cigarette inside and take a long drag, warming up my insides before I step out into the crisp night. Being forced to smoke outside stirs the vindictiveness in me. So I leave the door open. I'm not much of a spoker in truth - I don't like the way it makes my fingers smell - but lately I find myself rather drawn to it. At times, relying on it. A cigarette after tawdry, adulterous sex, erases

one bad deed with another. I run my fingers over the 'Smoking Kills' label on the box, turn and catch Erin shuddering in the sheets I have made cold. I remind myself that I'm not supposed to care, But I do. And after a moment, I shut the door behind me. I take one last drag on the cigarette and hold it longer than I normally would. As I exhale, I watch the white smoke hang lost in the air before the night swallows it. I stare blankly into space, just as lost, not sure which way to go - but sure I don't belong here. I need to keep moving. I step back into the bedroom. Erin and I stare at each other. She gives a hollow smile, crawls out of bed and makes her way to the bathroom. She swings the door shut then gently pulls it back open a crack. It's not closed, but it's not quite an invitation either. The water comes on, the sound of the bath being drawn. "Can you bring my robe?" Erin calls as I pull my shoes on and quickly gather my things. I glance around the room, lifting the bed covers and shaking pillows to make sure nothing is left behind. I tiptoe to the door and gently shut it. Leave. That's what I should have done six weeks ago when I last saw Erica. But there was an innocence to her, and untarnished purity in her love for her family, and her approach to love in general, that made me want to protect her, to be a better person for her. All the things that might usually have turned me away kept me there, and I have not been quite the same since. Even now I can't shake her off. Erin, usually my best distraction, is not helping. I can't get Erica out of my head. The cab turns onto a quiet tree-lines road, each house indistinguishable from the next. I catch my reflection in the rear view mirror; my eyeliner smeared, hair disheveled, evidence of a night stretched into a shameful morning. The driver pops into view and we exchange looks. He holds my gaze and I feel his judgement. "Do you need directions?" I snap. He looks away, disengaging. Before I can open my mouth again, he slaps the meter off and the cab grinds to a halt. Outside, the glint of my house number catches my eye and I realise I'm home. I look up at the mirror again, wanting to apologise, but the driver is glaring out the window. I tuck a twenty through the slot and jump out before he can count my change. He pulls away before the door fully closes. I stand before a house I do not recognise as my home. Odd, considering I've lived here for nearly twenty years. It's the house I grew up in, the home I left when I was eighteen. Since then, the only substantial communication I've received from my parents was a birthday card, which simply read: 'We're giving you the house.' I still have the card, a generic bunch of balloons on the front and a price sticker on the back. I keep it tucked away in a safety deposit box. The return address on the envelope is the house address. I'll never know whether they intended that to be ironic, or somehow symbolic. I waited a good six months before I even took a stroll past the house. I had to make sure my parents weren't still in it, despite all the questions I had for them. But I guess sometimes it's better to let the pot simmer down to nothing than to stir it up innecessarily for answers I know I won't like. By the time I got up the courage to try my key in the lock, it was obvious they were long gone. The house glistens like new after the paint job it recieved this week. The once-gunmetal grey door now shines red, the white gates are now black, and some freshly laid cobblestone steps

separate the two. I don't love the red but I know I don't have to. In a season's time I'll change it again. A 'Wet Paint' sign hangs on the gate, flapping in the wind. I yank the sign off and the new paint peels away with the tape, exposing the original white below. Shit. I pull out my mascara and apply the waxy black coating, slowly at first then aggressively, until the bristles on the wand flatten. I lean back and scrutinise my work. Black and shiny again. I push the door open. The smell of fresh paint quickly grates on me. I wedge a week's worth of post under the door to keep it ajar. I survey my new furnishings, modelled on the front cover of the latest Habitat catalogue. I poke around the house, counting to make sure all the pieces I ordered are here and in place. I throw myself on the new couch with my shoes still on - as one might carelessly treat a hotel room. I feel that nervous excitement that comes with change, but it is tinged with impending diappointment. I know the thrill will wear off quickly. Soon enough I'll be ready to change it all again. My therapist claims this is a reaction to abandonment; that my urge is to constantly create change to mantain a life devoid of attachments and commitments. She's good. Too good. It's hard to allow someone to see through you. And it's even harder to pay that person large amounts of money to point out the flaws you go to great lengths to hide. I'll put my money towards my spring wardrobe instead. I'm not going back to her. Running my hands along the painted walls, I work my way through the house and into the kitchen. I stop by the pantry door. It's old and it sits unevenly above the floor. Its been painted Crme Fraiche like the rest of the house. As wonky as it is, I dont have the heart to replace it. A spectrum of emotions boils up in me every time I see that bloody door. It creaks when I open it. The sound takes me back. Every day after school, I would return home to a game of hide and seek. My mother would hide in the pantry when she saw me coming up the driveway. Even though I knew exactly where to find her, there was always a speck of fear in me that she might not be there. Wed laugh and laugh; wed cry tears of joy, until the day when our roles were reversed and it was me who was done hiding. My days meld into nights, filled comfortably with work and plans I make, then breaks with friends. Today I drag myself up the familiar steps to my house carrying my Sainsburys bags full of ready meals. I guess the shiny, new paint does make the house look inviting, and for a moment I forget that Im about to eat the same cold pasta salad Ive eaten every day for the past week. Fourteen. I pull back the flimsy plastic cover of the pesto pasta salad. With the pot resting precariously on my chest, I eat lying down on the couch. Fourteen pine nuts. I weed them out one at a time. Its a guessing game that has morphed into a kind of pathetic sport for me one which I find far too amusing and win far too often. Not to mention, Im allergic to pine nuts. Not anaphylaxis allergic, but itchy-in-awkward-places allergic. Typical. Always drawn to the things I know are bad for me. My phone buzzes. A new text message. Could it be her? This pesky thought rampages though my mind more often than I am proud to adit, and causes my emotions to flutter, then sink. It's foolish, I know, because I know it's never her. Yet despite that, I scroll to her name in my inbox just to be sure. 'I'm really sorry' - the last message she sent me. I recieved it mere minutes after she walked off that morning. To meet her brother I assume. To grovel and to take back her words. Then go back to dating men. I wouldn't be surprised if she's match-made and engaged already, with a ring in one hand and a life-long prescription to antidepressants in the other. Convinced she can live happily ever after, all the while wishing she was with me instead. The dreamy side of me chimes in, cranks it up a notch. And maybe well meet a few years later, destiny pulling us to the same taco stand one afternoon that instant attraction we felt the first time we met seizes us, paralysing us, rendering us immobile as we drift across the sky through the window of an empty hotel room where we make love

"Christ! What is wrong with me?" I burst out loud. I chuck my salad carelessly onto the coffee table. Pine nuts and pasta bowties litter my buffed wood floors. I squeeze my eyes tight as though somehow, that can push her out of my mind. I'm bored. I'm bored! I need a quick fix, a distraction. I need a shiny new thing to play with. I stand before my window, flipping through clothes I'm begging to regret buying. Clothes that seemed like a good idea at the time. Midriff hoodies are never a good idea. Neither are cashmere hoodies, no matter how soft and cosy they feel. I have trouble getting dressed these days; find it hard to look at myself in the mirror and be happy with what I see. Ive been shopping online a lot lately, with no particular style or purpose in mind, besides a lazy attempt to reinvent myself. I figure if I look different, perhaps Ill feel different. The clothes never drape quite as nicely on my normal-sized frame as they do on the models, though. I throw on some dark jeans, a crisp new shirt, and my lucky knee-high riding boots. I apply some foundation, introducing some long lost colour to my face. Not too much make up. I dont want to look like Im trying too hard. I run a brush through my hair, then tie my hair up into a loose bun. The night is brisk. I tuck my hands into the pockets of my jeans for warmth. But the pockets, for reasons Im sure are sexist, are shallow and I find myself wedging a fist, stretching my jeans and causing them to bulge in all the wrong places. Perhaps I should have put a little more thought into my attire for the evening. Or perhaps I should have asked the cab driver to take me straight to the venue - not two streets short of it. But I want my arrival to go unnoticed. As I start to get the sniffles and search in vain for a tissue I know I do not have, I'm not so certain all this masquerading is worth it. With a ten pound note curled up in my hand, I take a deep breath, and step into the bar. Its well into the evening and I am immediately flushed with the warmth of all the bodies in the room. This must be what Christmas morning feels like in lesbian paradise. I smile for the first time today. I pay my money and present my hand for the obligatory nightclub stamping. Oh, we dont do that anymore, the hostess, an attractive brunette wrapped tight as a shrimp dumpling in a gold sequin dress, asserts a little too loudly. The ink rubs off on clothes after a little bit of dancing, she explains, with a playful swivel of her hips. I can hear her dress stretching in agony. "I see... sure..." I reply, as I start to walk away. "You haven't come by in a while have you?" she continues, now staring at me a little curiously. I turn back to her, perturbed by her determination to pull me into a discussion about the merits and pitfalls of hand-stamping. "You don't remember me, do you Kate?" she says, then clasps her hand on her chest: "Sharron." Faces and names flash through my mind as I try to seach for my file on Sharron. "Remember about a year ago at the gala..." "You're the party promoter," I finally recall. The memory of a quick dalliance followed by incessant phone calls starts to trickle back. "Party planner," she corrects. "I plan parties - like this one!" She waves her arm, gesturing to the scope of the event. Ladies' nights in London. They're a dime a dozen. And unfortunately, I've picked the wrong one. I start to look around for faces I recognise. "Not a bad job," I say in a concerted effort to be pleasant. "Constantly surrounded by formidable women. I think I might have dodged a bullet," I add jokingly - but not joking. "Guess that bullet came full circle," she quips, smiling suggestively. "Good to see you. I'm liking the new look, very au naturel." She blatantly eyes me from top to bottom, before turning to the next guest in line. I flash her a nasty grin, then quickly head upstairs to the bathrooms. I need a mirror. I reach the second floor landing. I skip up to the next flight of stairs. And there she is. Staring straight at me.

Erica stands in the cloakroom queue about twenty feet away. Her hair drapes across her shoulders and over her red silky short-sleeved top. She looks good in red. She smiles, and I force one in return. I glance over at the bathroom door and wonder if I can make it there before I have to engage in coversation with her. She waves me over. I walk over slowly, tucking loose strands of hair behind my ears as I suss out an appropriate greeting. "Hi," I think I say, but I can't hear myself above the music. "We were wondering who was running up those stairs!" Erica laughs casually. I pull back and shrug innocently. "Well, you know me... always in a hurry," I say a little louder, and with a knowing smile. She frowns momentarily, then smiles back. I know she's making all the right references. "It's good to see you," she says sweetly. I question whether this is true, but before I have the chance to formulate a suitably smart-arse retort, she leans in and hugs me. I hug her back, keeping some distance at first, but she pulls me in tight and I am reminded how good she feels in my arms. "It's good to see you too," I whisper in her ear. My body relaxes into her. I close my eyes as I start to feel the room spin. All I can hear is the sound of our hearts beating in sync. "Babe, give me your coat." The Asian girl queueing in front of Erica turns around to face us. Erica lets go of me, a little jarred; I can tell she was clearly just as lost in the moment as I was. Before Erica has a chance to make introductions, the girl turns to me with her hand outstretched. "Hi. I'm Jen." Who's this bitch? She's looming a good four inches above me, sinewy under a black lace shirt that's see-through in all the right places. Her hair is short framing high, chiseled cheekbones. She flashes a friendly smile. Her teeth are perfect. She could just be a friend. A straight, genetically blessed, and unavailable friend with a coke habit, on a weekend away from rehab. I hope. "Kate," I say as I take her hand. It is warm and soft. I notice her beautifully groomed nails, short and manicured. Of course. My heart starts to beat faster. My hands ball into fists. I hate her. But mostly I hate Erica for putting me in this position. "Jen... now is that with a 'G' or a 'J'? I have Asian friends who get really creative with spelling," I say. Erica sweeps in. "Take this," she says. She tries to hand Jen a fiver from her purse while throwing me a look to back off. "I got it babe," Jen responds. Those teeth of hers sparkle again. She gives Erica a reassuring squeeze on the arm before she walks off with the coats. I turn to Erica. "So is she your cousin?" She narrows her eyes at me. "Are we being rude already?" "You two look alike. Tall, thin, similar hairline. I bet you share a last name," I press. "Do you even know my last name?" she challenges. I shrug, my eyes trained on her. She looks away, nervous. I sense her giving in a little. But before I can respond, perfect Jen with her perfectly timed entrance waves Erica downstairs. "I'll see you downstairs." She turns to me with those focused eyes. I am not sure if that's a question or a statement. So I nod. Disparaging thoughs course through me as I lean against the wall inside the bathroom cubicle. I can't believe Erica is seeing someone else. And if she is openly dating women, why wasn't I the first person she called? Perhaps I should have been in touch with her before now. Should I have checked in to see how she was? My stomach churns at the thought of her embracing another woman. Perfect Jen. Jen, Jen, Jen.

A light tap on the cubicle door. "Just a minute," I reply curtly. I tear off a few squares of toilet paper, dry my nose, then fall back onto the wall of the cubicle. The last thing I need is to be rushed. The whole night feels like a mistake. There is a reason I prefer to meet women online, a reason why I stopped going to these lesbian nights. Week after week, the same faces start to pop up. Faces I dont want to see. Faces with questions I dont want to answer. I havent thought this through well at all. Coming here tonight, it was impulsive and reckless. I hear the same light tapping against my door. Peering through the tiny gap where the door meets its hinges, I see a slither of red. Could it be her? "Just a sec!" I respond hastily this time with a much gentler coice. I give my reflection a once over on the surface of the metal toilet paper dispenser, run my fingers through my hair, check my smile. I take a deep breath, my insides fluttering, then I slide the latch and open the door. It isn't her. Instead, it's a woman in her forties; arms crossed, livid. I find bathroom behavior to be a good measure of character. A useful test to see how one responds under pressure. I'm guessing this woman did not come here to make friends tonight. "I know you weren't really using the toilet," she says bitingly, as I cross to the sink. "I saw the way your feet were facing... I can tell," she adds. I make eye contact with her in the mirror. "That's creepy. You should fix that habit," I reply calmly. I love girl talk. I cradle my hands under the tap. The warmth of the water ripples through me. I look at myself in the mirror, steadily. Something switches on in me. I go downstairs slowly, but with confidence now, scanning the lounge for her. It doesn't take me long to spot her in the centre of the room, tucked in close to Jen in a small circle of women. Jen, flashing her teeth with every other 'e' she pronounces, is telling a story. The others listen and laugh. A girl works her way across the room towards Erica. They hug like friends. Good friends. She looks happy. She's trying to be happy. And I realise that's all I want for her. For myself? A stiff drink would do for now. I ease my way towards the bar, settle into a stool and signal to the bartender. She's cute. I look around the room. Everyone is engaged in surface-level conversation. Empty smiles, unecessary hand touching, arm brushing - small gestures that chip away that wall between 'complete strangers' and 'strangers who completely want to sleep with each other'. Isn't it strange how being physically alone at a singles' night somehow renders you unapproachable? I whip my phone from my back pocket and refresh my mailbox with a swipe of my thumb - over and over, like I'm skimming an email, like there are countless things jostling for my attention. "What can I get you?" the bartender asks. "Shot of whisky, please. Actually, make it a double," I correct myself, smiling. Pretty face, sexy body, a bit young for what I'm looking for maybe, but I don't care. As she fills my glass, she glances my way. I can tell she is interested. I feel a hand on my shoulder, the grip firm but gentle. I know it's Erica. I hope it's Erica. "There you are," she whispers softly. I smile. It is Erica. The bartender returns with my drink resting on a folded napkin. She looks to me, then to the napkin; then to me and to the napkin again, before walking away. I pick up the drink, knowing full well that the napkin with the bartenders number scribbled across it will unfold in front of Erica.

"You don't waste any time," says Erica. "Neither do you," I say, returning the jab. I hand my credit card to the bartender. "Shall I start a tab?" she asks. "No," I reply, slipping the napkin into the pocket of my jeans. "Are you leaving soon?" Erica asks. "I am. A bit knackered." I pause, and then I add: "Didn't get any rest last night," a cheap shot that makes me feel cheap. I turn to her but can't bear to keep my eyes on her for long. I retreat to my drink. I take small sips, a measured move, unsure how many more times I may need to use my drink as a prop to divert my gaze. "I'm glad I saw you," I say, my eyes fixed on the rim of my glass. "You seem to be doing great." "I'm doing... okay," she corrects. "Jen seems great." "Jen is great," she corrects again. Cheers to Jen, I say, as I bring the whisky glass to my mouth to prevent myself from saying something inappropriate. I take another big sip and let it trickle down my throat, making sure I feel the sting. "Jen's just a friend." Why did she admit that? I let silence fill the space between us, curious to see where she'll steer the conversation now. But she's just as patient, settling into the empty barstool next to me. "You should ask her out," I instigate, looking straight at Erica. "We dated for a little bit," she admits. "But we decided we were better suited as friends." I nod, trying to appear calm, unmoved. "I guess that means she's fair game..." I say with a cocky smile. Erica looks at me hard, not the least bit amused. I retreat into my drink again. "Why do you do that?" She asks earnestly. I laugh, hoping to soften my attack, but the conversation has already turned into a confrontation. I throw back the rest of my whisky, then I grab her Peroni to wash it down. I set it back down roughly on the counter in front of her. "I need to get going," I say. No goodbyes, hugs or apologies. I walk off and I do not look back. No cabs. I stand in the street, impatiently looking both ways. Never a cab in sight when you need one. Just as I start walking to the street corner, I hear her call my name. "Kate!" Erica stands in front of the door, rubbing her bare arms for warmth. I look back at her, unsure what to do. "Wait a second!" she cries. I walk back to her. She extends a hand out towards me and I pick up my pace. That fluttering sensation returns. I hurry towards her. "You forgot your credit card." She presents me with something plastic and shiny. I am a fool. I take it from her, mutter a thank you then quickly turn back into the empty street. But I feel her linger behind me. "What did you expect?" She says. I don't respond. "I texted you. You never replied," she continues between chattering teeth. "You should get back in there," I urge. You dont think I go to these things hoping I might find you? she presses. I hang my head, shoulders slump, my body articulating what I cannot with words. I see her shadow move into mine. "If I go back in to grab my coat, will you wait for me?" I look up and down the street, craning my neck, trying to spot signs of traffic. "You'll have to walk about eight streets over to catch a cab. You can call one from my place. It's closer. I could call one from inside the bar too, but... I look up and down the deserted street. I guess this way I can make sure she gets home safely. "Sure," I respond with a casual shrug. She looks at me questioningly.

"I won't leave," I add. She smiles back before dashing back into the bar. A taxi pulls up to the kerb in front of me. A couple of young, overly eager girls in skimpy clothes and pinching heels jump out. Off to make mistakes they won't remember by the morning, no doubt. The last girl brushes past me as she steps from the cab. "Are you coming or going?" she asks. I look to the door of the bar. A sinking feeling. How long does it take to find a coat? I sit inside the cab as it drives off, unsure if Ive made the right decision. Erica sits close. A little too close. Realising this, she shifts to her side of the seat, leaving a suitably polite, platonic gap between us. The warmth of her body moves away from me and is replaced by cold regret. We sit in the cab together in silence, the quiet broken every now and then when I breathe hot air onto my cold fingers. Erica reaches over and takes my hands in hers. Her body gravitates back towards mine, closing the gap. It feels comfortable. It feels right, like two jigsaw pieces clicking together. I feel the excitement start to build in me again, the same hope that has disappointed me one too many times tonight. So I keep my hand loose in hers, eyes on my window, counting houses to numb my mind, not ready to believe or trust any of it. The cab stops. "This is me," Erica says, still clasping my hands. I tighten my grip; she notices but pulls her hand away and reaches in her purse for money. She hands a note to the driver then opens the door. I lean back in my seat, certain that I will take the cab home. But Erica reaches for my hand. "C'mon," she says, Erica lives on the first floor of a three-storey building. I can barely keep pace as I walk from the pavement to her door. I shuffle my feet tweice on the doormat before entering. Her flat is small but charming, her dcor a clash of cultural influences. There are half-open boxes everywhere. I assume this to be the aftermath of the fall-out with her family, a topic I want to steer clear of. "Red or white?" she asks. "White. Always," I reply. Stained teeth are not attractive. "You'll have to forgive the mess," she calls from the kitchen. I'm sort of... in transition at the moment." I know a thing or two about transition. "It's fine, really..." I tiptoe around the boxes, finally settling myself on the arm of a couch covered with freshly folded laundry. "There's more space in my bedroom," she calls. How convenient. I push the bedroom door open. Sure enough, it is sparse in comparison to the rest of her flat. A nearly made queen-size bed sits on one side of the room, an empty bookshelf, a desk, and a half-filled wardrobe on the other. I sit on the edge of her bed, pull a pillow close and inhale. That scent again. I hear Erica come in. She sets two wine glasses down on the bedside table. I feel the mattress shift under me has she crawls to lie next to me. I open an arm and she curls into me, resting her head on my shoulder. Her face nestles up against my neck. She smells good, feels good, and I start to feel scares. "I promised myself I wouldn't sleep with you tonight," I whisper, my head touching hers, hoping she'll give me a reason to break my promise. Silence. Seconds stretch into painfully quiet minutes. I lean in and kiss her - long, and hard. She kisses back, but I feel her lips soften and pull away. "I called you a cab. It'll be here in fifteen minutes," she finally responds. That hurts. "Probably best," I finally reply, swallowing hard as I feel anger build up in me.

I can't believe her audacity. "Why did you bring me here?" I snap, pulling away from her. I stare at her, but she won't meet my gaze. It felt right, she starts, finally looking at me. Ive probably made more wrong decisions in my life than right ones. I mean, even the right ones Im not always confident they are right for me. But this feels right. Perhaps we would make the perfect couple. She's selfish and I'm a fool. Like a car she's taken for a test drive, and accidentally scuffed. Twice. "You have things you need to sort out," I say condescendingly, as I pull myself off her bed. "So do you," she replies firmly, taking me by surprise. I walk around her room. You could start by putting your clothes up on some hangers? I have bits of furniture you can have, unless you prefer to live out of cardboard boxes? I offer, gently kicking the one nearest to my foot. This could be a home. A good one. I smile hopefully, but she just looks back at me, not reacting. I look around, from the bookcases two-toned black and gray with dust, to the empty closet and half-filled boxes. I reflect again on the migration of all her possessions to the living room. I look back at her, then to her bare bed and empty night table, its drawer hanging half-open. Youre not unpacking, are you? I lift a photo frame wrapped in bubble wrap from one of her boxes. "No," she says, propping herself onto both elbows to face me. "I'm leaving." I try hard to smile, but my face just twitches as the truth starts to sink in. And soon, I realise I'm trembling. I stare at her, trying to make sense of it all in her eyes. But I can't break through. And then I realise the answer is in front of me. What's staring back at me is conviction. "When?" I finally say. She hesitates. "Soon," she replies, clearing her throat, and I begin to wonder if she's lying or just being evasive. "Where?" I ask pointedly as though I have a right to know. "Back home?" I add with a smirk, trying to be clever at the risk of being insensitive. Home would be better than any place she might say. But she tilts her head towards one shoulder, mouth zipped tight and shakes her head - no, not budging. I hear laughter, bursts of controlled husteria, which I slowly identify as my own. She doesn't say a word, but turns away from what I'm sure she recognises as sadness masked beneath uncomfortable laughter. A car horn sounds. "That's your cab," she says, getting up but keeping a respectful distance from me. Sensing her hesitation, I step towards her and pull her in for an embrace. She steps into me, hugging me tight, neither of us quite ready to let the other go. I rest my forehead against hers, wishing I could read her mind. We kiss. Short, long, both of us pulling away then leaning in for more like the snap of a rubber band that's been stretched too far. How could she leave? How can I? "You should go," she says in hushed tones, her arms coming undone. But I can still feel her breath against my neck, the contour of her body against mine. "But if I have a say in this?" I ask. My eyes are shut but I can see her, clear as day. Then finally, she whispers, "Stay". A car horn sounds again. I open my eyes, then narrow them into a squint at the intrusion of a morning that has come knocking far too soon. Outside the window, I see men muscling boxes into a van, boxes I know belong to Erica. I shut my eyes, hopelessly attempting to retreat from reality. I stretch my hand across the bed, but only the cold of empty sheets greets me. I bury my head in the pillow and breathe in deep. Every pocket of space inside me burns then chars, like the end of a cigarette after a long drag. Floorboards creak, the sound of a loud engine idling outside. I keep my eyes shut trying to ignore the sounds of movers as they empty Ericas flat into the van. I curl into the pillow and sheets, not wanting to wake up. Then I feel the warmth of her body lying next to me.

I know the conversation that awaits me, the courtesy of a goodbye she needs to say. The engine rumbles louder with impatience. But I keep my eyes shut, not wanting to be left with the sight of her walking away. Hours pass before I open my eyes, confident that she is no longer in the flat. I grab my jeans to pull on, and an envelope falls out from a fold. I stare at the blank envelope with trepidation at everything it could possibly mean. I sit on the pavement outside Ericas house with her pillow resting on my lap. I rest my head on the pillow, staring sideways at the envelope, preparing myself for all the possible things I could find. A letter saying goodbye; a bill, perhaps, for the extra hours the movers had to spend working around me; or worse, the envelope is mine but Ive conjured up this idea that Erica might have left me something to hold onto. I open the sealed envelope delicately, and pour the contents onto my shaky hand. It's her braided bracelet, the one she bought off the road in Tuscany, and the one I was certain she would take away with her. Light as it is, I suddenly feel the weight of all that it meant to me. I slip the bracelet around a panel of her old white fence, and begin to return home, to what I know is safe and certain. But then I turn back and retrieve the bracelet. I run it between my fingers, then tuck it into the tiny pocket of my jeans. It's tattered and old, just as I remembered it. Yet for the first time in as long as I can remember, I feel shiny and new.