WRITERS ABROAD MAGAZINE : THE THIRD SPACE
‘ I ’ ll have a beer ,’ you say , without thinking . Then you see the hurt in her eyes as she goes to the fridge .
She comes back and sits on the sofa beside you , laying her head on your shoulder . Her musky scent tickles your nostrils . ‘ Did you get my letters ?’ she asks . ‘ Yes .’ You gulp back your beer . ‘ Thank you .’ She lifts her head and looks at you , eyes narrowed . ‘ None arrived —’ ‘— from me ,’ you finish . How could you have explained the atrocities of war , the killing , the torture ? The sight of your best friend Harry , dead on the ground in front of you , half his brains blown out ? ‘ I ’ m sorry ,’ you say , hating yourself for the inadequate cliché . Eve flicks her hair across her face , but not fast enough to screen her tears . It must have been tough on her too .
In the awkward silence , the baking smells waft from the kitchen , reminding you of the flat Afghan loaves you ate for breakfast . As you block out the image , an idea springs into your head . A celebratory dinner . Yes . Eve would love that . You ’ ll take her to her favourite restaurant that serves that fancy seafood platter she raves about . ‘ I ’ ll book a table at Le Poisson Bleu for tomorrow night .’ ‘ Sounds good .’ She snuggles up closer . ‘ Don ’ t tell me you remembered it ’ s St
Valentine ’ s Day ?’
‘ Of course .’ Is it really ? In the morning you ’ ll buy her roses . You think of the eloquence of flowers – like the poppies that you and Harry once stumbled upon in a field . Such beauty – amidst the ugliness of war – had made you catch your breath .
Eve ’ s arms wrap around you , drowning your memories and rekindling lost emotions . You hold her tight and bury your face in her silky hair . The coldness inside you starts to thaw . Desire stirs .
You ’ re in freefall . But it ’ s too fast . The ground is rushing up towards you . Fear turns everything black . Fear of the enemy . Fear of death . Through all this , a voice is calling , ‘ Peter .’ Then louder , ‘ Peter !’ You pull the cord . The parachute opens . Relief floods your veins . But you ’ re not in the air at all . It ’ s Eve . She ’ s stroking your hair , your cheek , kissing your closed eyelids .
‘ It ’ s time for bed , love . You ’ re exhausted .’ She grips your hand and pulls you up . ‘ It ’ s over ,’ she whispers , her love washing over you .
You can ’ t tell her it will never be over – not completely – but she has reached a part of you that you feared lost . You kiss her more firmly now and follow her up the stairs .
27 | May 2016