He couldn’t deal with his reality now. He let it ring out.

*

He went to his bed, there was a letter addressed to him, placed on his pillow.

The handwriting he didn’t recognise, it simply said Ever on the envelope.

Ever, my sweet,

You are lost now, I know you are, I am in the easier place. I am gone although we will always meet whenever you want, I want you to know you have a wonderful heart that is punished by your head. Let it all go, follow your heart and all will be well. You won’t be lost. This is short and true because I could go on and on about what you mean to me. But you know that, ask your heart.

See you soon, my sweet,

Lomita for Ever.

There was nothing to say to that, other than a feeling that he had met who he was meant to meet. He felt worryingly bereft of emotion, wrung out, a little dry, if he was honest, which was what he intended to be now. Honest that is.

That his life, for the first time, had in it some kind of honesty and revelation: the finding out the truth about a secret, the opening, the cataract removal, the glasses on, the sight restored, the engine started, the road opened, the trains running, the race won, the exam finished, the bike ridden for the first time, balance, the learning to swim, the understanding of the alphabet, the first spoken word, the triumph of walking, the eating on your own, the co-ordination of limbs, the principle of life, the geometric understanding, the arithmetic formula, the tying of a shoelace. One foot in front of another, the forward process.

*

The handwriting was as elegant as the writer.

With a curl and an impracticality of line, not functional; not there for the reason of placing one letter after another; it showed a lifetime of trying and wanting to express; but being held back by behaviour, process, event, an effort to hold it all together.

An avalanche of movement on the page, waiting to be unleashed.

A thunderstorm that never rained.

Never got there.

Almost, but not quite.

*

It took a long time to get there but he imagined the phone call with Clarissa.

Version 1:

Your four weeks are way up, what’s going on?

I am going to quit my job. Are you both well?

What do you mean? How are you going to live?

I’ve sorted it, and you will always have money, I will send you an allowance. It’s just that you can’t be with me. You can’t be with me. It is not good.

What the fuck are you talking about?

What I have just said is how it stands. I love you both, but I will finish with you both. Please understand, and in a few months maybe you can come and see me but right now you cannot.