superhands

She is screaming at me, telling me to get the hell out of her house. It was once our house. Our house that I paid for. Now she wants me the hell out. She throws something and it smashes. It sounds expensive. I don’t see what it is because I’m looking at the floor. I really can’t look at her as she calls me a liar and a thief and a cheat.

Get out, she says.

Get out, get out, get out.

The front door slams behind me. I’m on the front step, still staring down. The welcome mat beneath my feet has a bitter irony all of its own. Its starting to rain so I walk to my car. All around me the cul-de-sac is silent – kids at school, parents at work. Not another living soul in sight. This isn’t so bad. We never liked our neighbours. They all had those we’ll-be-nice-to-you-because-we’re-stuck-living-beside-you smiles. The falseness of it all really made me sick. We never liked living here at all. Maybe that’s the problem.

No. This is my fault. All of it. It’s time for me to get out of here.

The rain washes across my windscreen, rattles against my roof like a snare drum. I’m in my car driving into town. I’m not going anywhere except away from that cul-de-sac. Away from her. I park on the main street and turn the engine off. The rain has gotten heavier, now it sounds like someone marching an army across the top of my car. Out on the street people dash for cover from doorway to doorway, briefcases or jackets raised over their heads to keep their precious hairstyles dry. I see our next door neighbour Chester crossing the street in a fancy pinstripe suit. Halfway across he steps in a puddle ruining what look like new shoes and soaking his trousers to the knee. The look on his face is brilliant. I’d laugh if I wasn’t crying.

I take out my mobile and open the phone book. Hers is the first name on the list. I put a space before it when I entered it so as it would be before the A s in alphabetical order. I press dial. It rings twice before I hang up.

No. She’ll only scream at me if I call her. No more screaming at me today thank you very much.

The countryside flies past me in a blur, obscured by sheets of pouring rain. I’m doing ninety on a winding back road. The road is covered in water and I can barely control the car art this speed. If I tried to break now I’d probably die in a fiery mess. It takes all my concentration to keep the car on the road. If I think about anything else other than the road it’s all over.

I reach the end of the line on a cold windswept mountainside. The road comes to a stop at an old rusted gate which leads to a dirt track that is mostly a river in this weather. Below me, beyond the fields and the trees and the low crumbling stone walls, lies the town. Beyond it is the housing estate, our estate. I can’t see our house. The visibility is poor up here. The rain is worse than ever.

I spend what feels like hours composing a text message which consists of two words: I’m sorry.

I press send. Almost instantly my phone buzzes with response. The reply is short and sweet.

I’m sorry too.

But it’s still a long time before I start the car up again and drive home.