2008

It’s late summer, the hottest on record. You call it climate change and I call it an Indian summer. We’re sitting on the patio in silence. You’ve finished your strawberries and are eyeing up mine, your arms tanned against your white dress. Seeing you in my house is harder than I expected. You haven’t mentioned the engagement ring I’m wearing and neither have I.

What time will you leave?

Eight.

Oh.

Is that an issue?

No.

Good.

Condensation gathers at the base of our glasses. The hum of bees builds to a crescendo in the clumsy silence that stretches between us. I want you to kiss me but I don’t know how to ask. I don’t know how to be myself anymore. My limbs feel too long, my hands too large, my skin too tight. The ring on my finger is heavy with the pressure of doing the right thing.

But you’re happy?

Yes. It costs a lot to say it.

Good.

Your voice is very soft because you know I’m lying. You reach out a hand, think better of it, and trace patterns in the condensation instead. The air is so heavy with the heat that it’s crushing me. I can’t look at you so I watch your fingers instead and remember the way they held a paintbrush. Try not to think about the way they would feel on my face. Try not to wish that the ring on my finger was yours. I thought I’d already learned what heartbreak feels like.

It’s a beautiful ring.

Thank you.

I don’t know what else to say so I let the silence envelop us until it’s time for you to go. I concentrate on the little movements: how to carry plates with a steady hand, how to tuck the stray hairs behind my ears, how to keep my eyes from fixing themselves on your face. You wear an expression I can’t quite place as you drive away without waving. I watch the dust settle in the road behind and then go inside and sit very still until Will comes home. Breathing is harder than usual.