Only half awake, I watch her watching T.V. I remember how she used to look at me. I remember how close we sat on this same sofa, she used to tuck her toes under my legs as she curled like a cat. She used to break from the program to stare at me and of course I pretended I hadn't seen her, feigning surprise.
She is kind to me. She makes those efforts that convince me that she must still love me, at least in some maternal way, in some platonic sense. The sandwiches she makes me are still just as delicious as they have always been, all the trimmings, she misses nothing out. Homemade humus, fat slices of impressive cheese with halves of green queen olives. Would you go to that much trouble for someone you no longer loved?
Through the low down slits made from heavy lids and tired eyes, I can see how I am a mirage to her. A pet that only needs affection every now and then, content in the background curled up near a warm radiator. And how she must misunderstand me...
Her phone goes and I know she will dash to it like a teenager. I know she will and I understand why she does it too, because that phone is her lifeline. The people on the end of that phone are what save her from the obscurity that she feels she has with me. Insightful, occupation hazzard.
It would be too easy to go to the doorway and listen to her end of the conversation. Besides, I couldnt be bothered to get up. Instead I stay in my arm chair, lopsided like heavy winter coat slung carelessly. Two more hours and I need to be back out there, watching this guy leave his late night shift at Asda, packing. Muslim, his mother suspects he is taking drugs. I am hot on the case, this is what our lives boil down to. Suspicious and sneaky and no-one will ask outright because no-one knows how to tell the truth anymore.
She comes back in the room after some time and glances over at me. She can read me better than I think. Or else she feels guilty because she gives me this look like she thinks I am upset. The potency of this look is incredibly, I could cry and cough out my soul right there for her like a cat producing fur balls. I could, I could, but I wont and I dont. I never would, I would never do anything that would make her feel uncomfortable or bad about who she is because who the fuck am I to judge?
That look gives me all the proof I need, more than one half a conversation could. Her friend from Australia is back and the turbulence in her soul has been awakaned and there is nothing I can do to stop it. For a time she will hate me again and I will work hard as I can to stay out of her way, give her space while I skulk in the shadows of other peoples secret lives.