On the way home we sit in silence. Her knees are clamped together, angled away from me. She looks out the window. I drive down the hill, past the pub and the church, into the quiet, middle class suburb she’s so desperate to escape. It’s easy to leave when you’ve got money. It’s easy to go on an adventure when you know exactly what you’ll be coming back to.

I turn into her drive, watching the gap, not the gateposts, and we sit there for a few seconds. She unclicks her seatbelt.

‘You’re not coming are you?’

‘I don’t think so, no.’

She nods, staring forward. Her voice sounds strange and neutral. My heart beating loud in my ears.

‘What will you do?’

I shrug, ‘Probably just, you know, stay here and appreciate nature.’

A twitch at the corner of her mouth. She reaches for her bag out of the back seat and sits there for a moment. She leans across the gearstick quickly, holds my face and kisses me. A 1940s film-star kiss. I don’t have time to feel anything.

‘Goodbye, Alex.’

She doesn’t look back. I watch her turning the key, the sharpness of her elbow, her knee pushing against the door where it sticks. Her hair tangled from the drive. She’s gone. I imagine her slumped against the door, sobbing silently on the other side next to the executive umbrellas and shoes neatly lined up in the rack, the hallway that smells of polished wood and expensive washing powder. But that’s all it is. A fantasy. The windows are all clean and blank. The lawn is neatly edged. There are red geraniums in terracotta pots.

This image burns into me. I’ll remember it just as it is.

10:35 am

but that wasn’t the point after all because

Mum said he already had a mother and so we shouldn’t               meddle

but his mother had bruises on top of her bruises and it was Dad’s job to

sort things out     because there are bad men.

So he went, and he went again.

And sometimes the boy still came to the door and he was never

dressed    right    and  then

we spoke of many things, many things     but not with

words.

Sunlight right in my – and the dust   silver and gold everywhere       I could touch it       if I –

Why do they never stop talking? Are they looking               are they looking at me?

Leaves and feathers and bottletops on the backstep. He was trying to tell me

something

but they hide all my letters and smile while they do it.

No stamps, no envelopes.

The doors are all locked. The messages never get through.

12 May 1999

Afsana