Groceries

In the cafe on the main street downtown I can see my ex-husband. He is sitting at the window, with his head down, picking at his food. I recognise him straight away and am suddenly very aware I will be walking into his eye-line if he lifts his head. I ghost between two parked cars and park myself on a bench, just out of sight, beside a tree.

His top section is visible through the window along with his feet, resting on a ledge. I can make out his expression to some extent, but I cannot, for the life of me, place it. He scrapes something off his burger before taking a bite. I watch him as he chews for a moment before looking out of the window, gazing into the distance. I imagine myself there beside him, several years ago. His frame is thinner and his hair is thicker, but his eyes glow the way only I have seen. I could walk into the cafe and act surprised, I could tell him how great he looks, perhaps we will embrace awkwardly. Maybe we will have a coffee, maybe we will laugh about the time we spent in Rome, and how the cheap champagne made him sick; how he sang me a song about maidens and castles as he lay slumped across our cheap, unmade hotel bed. Then can imagine how the conversation will progress. I will accidentally bring up Marianne, perhaps I subconsciously want to, and things will turn sour. He will raise his voice a little and say ‘I thought we were over this’ and he will look away, resignation in his eyes. I will catch them in the mirror and something inside me would shatter beyond repair.

Suddenly I am standing, turning away from the cafe. My feet are guiding me away from the hostile situation. Maybe one day, but not today. I can pick up the eggs from the grocery store on the end of the street instead, it is a little more expensive there, but that hardly matters. And the bread? Well, that can surely wait until tomorrow.