Monologue

I do actually wash up. I mean I don’t always do the best job but I do the best I can, I’m just not built for the task. I use way too much Fairy Liquid, I always leave the taps on, I mean I dry up fine. Maybe we could team up and take a job each. That would be much better. The kitchen wouldn’t get flooded all the time. I see her furious, tomato red face peering round the living room door, telling me that there’s scummy water all over the floor again, and my heart and testicles ache as if to say, “why? Why didn’t you remember?”

Since I moved in I’ve regretted it. From the moment the door closed behind me I knew I’d ruined everything. When there was no room for my shirts in the wardrobe the feeling grew. I have to use the drying rack to store everything, and next to the radiator that isn’t so bad. But even though you can’t turn your nose up at warm underpants, I can’t help but feel like I am in a place where I am not wanted. Intentions were pure, and love was reason enough, but we wore each other down. I’ve looked through the newspaper for a second job, not because we are low on money, but because I don’t want to be in the house.

I’m sitting on a packed suitcase, my hand poised over the scrap of paper that will hold my goodbyes. My pen waits for me to inflict the wounds on the page. It’s an inconvenient time for writer’s block.

To Charlotte,

No. That’s rubbish.

Dear Charlotte,

...

Charlotte,

Come on. It’s not that hard. It can’t be, people do this all the time. I have half a mind to throw the pen across the room, violence at its mildest setting.

I’m sorry for everything I have put you through.

What have I put her through? Wanting to be with her? Wanting to make a home with her? And why should I be sorry? I never wanted any of this; I thought things would be great, like they were. We could curl up on our sofa, drink tea from our kettle, and lay on our bed at night. We could take our car and go anywhere, knowing we could come back here to our kingdom.

We went to the lake once. We sat by the peace pagoda and ate sandwiches. We rolled down the hills, clothes turning deeper shades of emerald. Those same clothes are in my suitcase. The laughter from that day rings in my ears like concussion, as if it wants to slap some sense into me. I shouldn’t have thought about it.

There’s fresh paper in the draw. This one’s too messy. The fresh sheet waits. The tip touches the surface.

I love you.