Because you make me breakfast. Because you came back from Dubai. Because you were the first woman who didn’t make me feel like a heel. Because you draw little flowers on envelopes. Because you know how to operate the DVR. Because you feed the dog pieces of cheddar when you think I’m not looking. Because you tiptoed around my anger for a year and a half. Because you’ve kept that plastic tag I once pretended was a wedding ring. Because you looked after Tom like he was your own, and gave him stability. Because you never said a word, even when you thought I was having an affair with Dr Salmon.
She has paused over the breakfast plates like a priest about to bless them.
You weren’t?
Only in my stupid teen-boy head, he says. Not in reality.
She brings the plates over and they sit opposite each other. She is scared to look him in the eye, though she knows he is still gazing at her. Best to grind the pepper moderately. Best to take a mouthful or two, and chew.
You don’t have to love me, he says. I quite understand if that’s all over for you. Maybe you even want to leave. Or want me to leave. But whatever happens between us, I want you to know I love you anyway.
She stares at him then. His pupils are wide and honest. She takes a sip of tea and pushes her eggs away.
Are you on drugs? she asks.
He laughs. No, no.
Then what’s happened to you? What happened when I was in Dubai?
I don’t know how to explain, he says. Without scaring you.
What would scare me? she asks, her hand twitching on the handle of the Paris cup, which along with its mate he is setting out onto the table every morning now, as if trying to give her the same present, again and again. But she knows what would scare her. Almost any version of reality where he is unpredictable. Like this one.
There is something – he reaches for the words – something bigger than us.
The Government? she offers.
He smiles at her protective attempt at derailment.
Something bigger than that.
God? she jokes, and watches his face slide into relief. You found GOD? she says, incredulous.
That’s probably the wrong word—
What’s the right word?
I don’t know, he says. Maybe there isn’t a word. Maybe a word isn’t sufficient. Look, he says, don’t let it worry you. It doesn’t have to concern you. It’s just… you wanted an explanation. That’s the best I can do at the moment.
She stares at him over the cold eggs.
I was worried it was mania, she says.