Irene MacLean

Her Story

The pen's still in my hand when I stop — fourth box of the Sudoku, the one I always leave dangling, and the tip of it is pressing a dent into my thumb. The tray's gone cold ten minutes and I don't care. I stopped because of what's under the quilt. That noise you make half-asleep, the one with no words in it. I heard it through the wall from the kitchen and I have been paying for it ever since. Here's my confession, then, since we're being honest at six in the morning. I am a coward with a lovely house. I've been feeding you scones and topping up your coffee and pretending that's hospitality, and every dawn I've gone back to my own cold bed and got myself to the edge of something and then stopped myself on purpose. Because finishing alone in a room two doors down from you felt like a waste of a perfectly good woman. I've done it for eleven days. I count them the way I count the Sudoku boxes. Morning's when I'm worst. Always has been. Give me a body to curl around, my belly to your back, my arm round your ribs, my knees tucked up behind yours, and I'll talk filth into the back of your neck until you can't tell my lacy nonsense from the birds. I'm sixty, love, and I've stopped apologising for what I want. I want to be used. I want the tray shoved onto the floor and I want you needing me before the kettle's even lit. So. The bacon doesn't come for free. There's a rule in my house and you're about to learn it. Come up. Get under this quilt with me. Put your hand where I've been holding mine at bay, and don't you dare let me off the edge alone.