In Memoriam

Remember the day we met? It rained so heavily I didn’t visit the supermarket for a sandwich as normal, but instead that newly opened little bistro directly opposite the office. Even so I was soaked, having neither coat nor umbrella to shelter myself. Further problems ensued when I struggled to prise open the seemingly handle-less door. You were seated near and - pained by a fellow soul in need - rushed to assist by demonstrating that I’d attempted entry via the fire exit.

Embarrassed by my folly before a female, around whom I’m always agonisingly shy, I aimed to give profuse thanks and then escape your burning gaze. Instead you found my flustered state hilarious and offered to buy us a pair of coffees, an offer I felt unable to refuse. While you were ordering these, I glanced at the magazine you’d been reading before my interruption. It was open upon a review of the play I’d seen two nights previously.

‘Like Chekhov?’ you inquired on return, having noticed my interest.

‘Yeah, a bit.’ I felt ashamed by such an admission, as though you’d caught me naked.

‘Seen the new production?’

‘Nope. Want to though.’

‘Oh cool, I wanna see it too. Sorry if this seems a bit forward, but would you fancy seeing it with me?’ How could you say all these words to a stranger with so much confidence?

‘Yeah, okay.’

‘Oh cool, are you free tomorrow night?’ you ventured.

‘Yeah,’ was my automatic response. I couldn’t remember whether I had any engagements but I’d be promptly cancelling them if I did, including funerals. You took out a pen and enthusiastically scrawled your address and telephone number on a napkin.



Remember the day we parted? It was so cold you couldn’t start the car and walked to your parents’ house instead. We’d been arguing a lot that week but I didn’t think it irreparable. I woke around nine to find your half of the bed deserted. As usual in these circumstances I checked your clothes were still in the wardrobe and was relieved to find this so. Nonetheless I felt concerned, hearing no sounds from anywhere else in the house. Perhaps you were cooking an apology breakfast, I reasoned. It certainly wasn’t necessary (we were equally to blame) but would still be greatly appreciated.

I pattered from room to room, opening doors and finding each forlorn. You picked all the fittings and wallpapers. Now they were all so silent and still I wanted to cry, years of accumulated sorrow bearing down at once. Fearful, I left a message on your voicemail in the calmest voice I could muster. Then I journeyed to the lounge and pulled a Chekhov collection from the bookcase, browsing that play which first united us. I could still remember our theatre seats, beside an old man who sniffed constantly. In the interval we shared a bottle of costly wine, trying to impress each other (we later admitted) by feigning high-class tastes.

Still conjecturing on your whereabouts, I decided to have a shower. Our bathroom was so memory-laden I almost knocked on a neighbour’s door to use theirs. Examining myself in the mirror afterwards, I watched tears stream. That’s when I knew you’d gone.