Crash

Sunday 

Up in the hills again. Golden light flickering through branches and leaves, as I peddle up, up, up. The road is smooth, the sound of the wheels soft and soothing. Birds, an occasional car, and the blue sky. 

It could all be so good, couldn't it? It could all be this. This could be all. 

But: later aching, in the hot water, hoping for healing somehow from the heat. Steam in my lungs, steam and heat like the maternal embrace I so desperately crave. And tears again. It's okay, there's no one else here. 

It's okay. 


Tuesday 

Awake and still, she's the first thing in my head. Still anger and sadness and such disbelief. Shock. Consternation. I have to get up. I have to get up because if I don't get up, nothing happens. I need things to happen. I need things to change. 

Coffee on the boil. Move to the shower. Try to avoid seeing that tired, ageing face, that body. Warm, hot water, steam. Comfort. Embrace. Not alone. Not untouched. Stay here forever. Floral scent of gel. Comfort. Softness. Love. Warm. Stay here forever and ever. 

No. 

Cycling across. Driver doesn't look. For a moment, as I tumble in to the car, I don't know if he will stop. He slows and stops. I roll over the bonnet and on to the road on the other side. Some shrieks from the street. Am I hurt? 

I don't feel anything. I get up. What the fuck? Fucking hell man. I shout. And continue with rage, until I see the man in the car, apologetic, shocked. He exits, apologising, fear in his eyes. I stop. I need to change. I need to not be the angry victim. 

He gives me his number, finds a way to send me cash. The wheel on the bike is bent comically, all banana like. My leg is bruised and bleeding a little, but it's nothing. Nothing to fight over, to cry over. I end up reassuring him, checking he is okay. He calls his daughter. I feel bad for him. 

Later, Nadia calls. Are you okay? she asks, worry and care in her voice. She's the only one who ever asks. The only who really cares, as far as I can tell. Even now, after all these years, after all I put her through. God, what love, if only I could go back and do it all differently. What a woman. 

Home, but not really a home. Lying down, aching leg, nothing on the agenda. Just waiting for tiredness. Waiting for bed time. The worst time. Waiting for sleep. Not expecting any change. Not expecting anything good.

And punctuating everything, every space between every heartbeat, every pause between every thought, every gap in the pavement and every void between every soul I see, is my sorrow and thinking of Alessia. Is my desperate longing to no longer feel this way. The desperate hope that maybe, after all, it will all turn out to be in service of something. To mean something. Maybe it's a road taking me somewhere. 

But it's not. It's not taking me anywhere. It's a full on crash. And I just don't know if there's any coming back from this.