Relationship Maths

Longlisted (no shortlist) Reflex Fiction Flash Fiction Award

Our bed has two countries. A border we don’t cross. 

His snore has a whistle. I’m clad in flannelette. Before, when our bed was still one country, maths didn’t figure much in our relationship. When we talk about it, left-over feelings scratch my throat. His too. I hear them. Then we put on Netflix.

Voices rise next door. Neighbour’s secrets arrive intact through baking paper walls. Most mornings I see her latching the door. We look at each other for seven heartbeats, then smile, we both have pale green eyes.

It’s Saturday night. I put on glamour, he changes his t-shirt, we go to dinner. I tell him a new position has come up at work, I might apply. And can we please move so we don’t have to hear our neighbours burp?

He agrees about the flat, then rants about his idiot boss micromanaging him. We should save for a holiday. Greece? Chilli sauce drips down his chin. I pass a serviette.

Home in bed. I switch off the light and cross the border to his side. My heartbeat’s a flapping fish.

 ‘Are you awake?’

I’m violently lonely in my country. Isn’t he?

I’ll give my husband what he really wants. More than a new boss, a better flat, a Greek Island holiday. Me. My naked skin. My enduring longing. If only he’d stop tallying up the moments we reached across and found ourselves outcast. If he’d only tear up that tired spreadsheet hardening his eyes. 

I trace a kiss between his shoulder blades. I’m here in your country. Turn around, please. 

Or we can hurt privately. Stay in our pods and carry on keeping scores. Crunch more numbers so we shut down even more. Roll over and hold me. Love-bomb me, feel my withered skin ripen under your warmth like plump summer fruit.