25
Ryan
After training, I popped into the localSupervaluto grab something for dinner. I don’t love ready-meals, but I’m not a great cook, and I can’t be bothered to try. I’m not like Ian, who has a bigger kitchen than my mum, where he loves cooking meals for everyone. I’ve never been interested in learning how to cook well – I’ve always got by, and I’m still alive, so I don’t see the point in improving now.
I put the shopping bag into the boot of my car and jump into the driver’s seat, pulling out of the car park and onto the main road. I stop at the red light and glance over to my right, where I see Christine dragging a bin out onto the pavement.
The cars behind me start beeping, trying to tell me that the light’s turned green. I quickly move into first gear and drive off, deciding not to think about it, to just leave it be and escape as quickly as I can.
I drive along for about two hundred metres, and nearly crash straight into an oncoming car on the other side of the road.
Fuck.
I pull into the first free parking space along the pavement and slam my hands against the steering wheel like a madman. I decide to get out of the car.
I turn back towards her café, just in time to see her dragging out a second bin. I go over to her, and wordlessly take the bin from her, pulling it over to the corner of the street.
Then I turn back to face her.
“There’s another one,” she says, not looking at me. “It has to go to that area over there, for glass recycling.”
I head towards the entrance and grab the last bin, dragging it effortlessly over to the area she’d pointed out. It’s only about two hundred metres away – nothing for someone like me – but I know that for a woman so small it wouldn’t have been easy.
I stop next to the glass container as she catches up to me, almost running.
“Bloody hell, you have long legs,” she comments. “One of your steps is like two of mine.”
I stifle a laugh as she opens the bin and starts plucking out the bottles to throw them into the container. Without a word, and without her asking, I start grabbing bottles too.
When we’ve finished, I grab the bin and drag it back down the street, walking more slowly this time. Once we reach the café, I wipe my hands on my jeans, as she takes the bin back inside.
“Well, thanks,” she says, uncomfortable.
“You’re welcome.”
“Everyone’s gone home already,” she adds, trying to make conversation. “Normally they give me a hand.”
I nod.
“Can I offer you a drink? To say thanks.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
We stand there in silence for a few moments, then she says: “Okay. Well…see you around,” and disappears inside.
I try to move, to walk away and keep minding my own business, but my feet are glued to the pavement, and my eyes are glued to the windows of that damn café.
I decide to hurt myself – that real kind of pain that chews you up inside, that stops the blood from flowing through your veins. The kind that wakes you up every night, aware of the permanent emptiness of your bed. But I’m going to dive into the pain anyway, because – as far as I can tell – nothing can be as bad as the endless pain you feel when you’re alone.
I watch her move around: lifting chairs onto tables, cleaning the counter, sweeping the floor.
And she’s dancing.Fuck.She’s just dancing, as if she were weightless, as if she’s being carried away by the music floating through the café.
I watch her.
I stare at her.
I feel her.
