Triangles (New Original Writing)

He can touch me with a look.

Like he does across a crowded room, when no-one has noticed that I am watching him through my growing-out fringe and he is watching me from the shade of his hat. His face is tanned and rough with dark stubble which chafes delicate skin and he is twisting his plain gold wedding ring around and around. The pub is smoky and noisy with voices competing with background music and so crowded that even lifting a glass to my lips involves poking someone else in the ribs with my elbow. The whiskey is neat and is sharp on my tongue before burning it's way down my gullet like indigestion, coming to rest on an empty stomach. I drink too much, I know.

I put my glass down and, looking up, see that my line of vision is blocked by my approaching neighbour. He is smiling uncertainly, probably due to the fact that I berated him for inappropriate behaviour last weekend, but he is endeavouring to get close enough to me at the bar to be able to hold a conversation without everybody overhearing. His hand rests on my shoulder as he squeezes past and with some satisfaction I notice that he is glowering across the room. I smile tipsily and turn back to my neighbour. I allow him to stroke my arm and buy me a drink. When he snakes his way between the jostling bodies of our fellow villagers on his way to the toilet and I am left alone, I sneak a glance back over at him. He has, at some time without me noticing, visited the bar and recharged his glass. He is cradling a glass tankard in both hands with a roll up cigarette smouldering between his fingers. He is engaged in an apparently hilarious conversation with a fellow farmer, but to my practised eye, he is laughing just a little too loudly, gripping his glass a little too hard and his chocolate brown eyes flicker in my direction just a little too often.

My neighbour returns and lights a cigarette before offering me one. He leans close to shield the flame with a large hand and my eye catches his watch. Quarter to eleven. Late. Again. I finish my cigarette and then crush it out in the overflowing ashtray, make hasty excuses and rush outside, buttoning my jacket against the frosty air. The gravel in the car park is crunchy, already frozen and I am glad I don't have to drive. It is dark with only a pool of illumination from the small estate of council houses by the play ground. I cross the road and run up the hill, scrambling over the stile next to the post office. I stay close to the hedge and jog along the grass strip left beside the ploughed field. He always leaves it, for walkers. Over the gate at the end, I land on the road and slip and slide down the hill and around the corner. The babysitter is waiting for me at the door with a tight expression. Guiltily, I overpay her. I kick off my shoes and fill the kettle before lifting the yellow lid and setting it on the Aga. Then, a favourite treat saved until last, I pad quietly through to the lounge. On the sofa, face down, sleeps my daughter. Her dark hair curls onto the collar of her soft cotton nightgown and her arms are flung wide. I catch my breath, unable to find air around the lump in my throat.

I hear a key in the back door and then the sound of it closing quietly. Footsteps pause on the flags as heavy boots are removed then moments later, the lounge door scuffs against the thick carpet. Arms slide around me and a kiss is pressed to the back of my neck. Tears sting my eyes.
"I thought," he said, "I'd come and put our baby to bed before I go home." He squeezes me tight against him and I resist the urge to turn in his arms and hug him back.

He bends by the sofa and scoops up our sleeping child. She squirms and whimpers but then, recognising the familiar scent of her father she settles. It is the same scent which lingers on my clothes, hides in my bed long after he has left. Bless her, she is too young to understand. How I wish I could preserve this innocence forever, quell the inevitable questions. They will come, and no doubt come between us, this monster of my own making. Cradling her against his chest, he brushes his lips against her delicious skin. He balances her between us for a moment and kisses me; his breath tastes of alcohol, cigarettes and the fresh cold night air. I kiss him back, one hand on his shoulder, the other on our child's cotton covered arm. He pushes open the door with his foot and I hear him mumble quietly to her as he climbs the stairs. I sit on the sofa, burying my nose into the warm place my daughter left. He is here, with us. For now.

I think as much of leaving him as of forcing him to stay.