Worse Case Scenario
First published in Door Is A Jar Magazine, Issue 11 Summer 2019
Standing by the underground station entrance, I shift my weight from one leg to the other, but it doesn’t ease the discomfort inside me. Nose in my phone like the dozen other people scattered around, I blend in — another jagged commuter who’s arrived early, waiting for someone. In truth, you are fifteen minutes late and haven’t replied to any of my texts.
***
One.
Your boss popped by your desk for a chat. Of course, you were free you told him. Nothing in your near future that couldn’t wait for five minutes… or fifteen. You sat with him, knowing that whenever you showed up, I would be there — a predictable certainty in a green polka dress by the station entrance.
***
Two.
You ran into your ex at the corner of Neal Street and Long Acre. Literally. The shock of your two bodies colliding reignited that gravitational pull between you. Forgetting about me, you invited her for coffee — catching up before a familiar desire would drive you to take her home and become two naked bodies twisting under the sheets we bought at John Lewis. Finally surrendering to the truth, I had only been a consolation prize, the teddy bear people won at the fair but not quite the one they had their heart set on.
***
Three.
You were crossing Shaftesbury Avenue and never saw the speeding black cab. Your body drew a perfect arc as it flew across the street. Now lying on the asphalt, all torn flesh and broken bones, a wreath of strangers’ heads obstructs your view of the sky. You search for my face but I’m not there. Instead, I’m standing by the station entrance, worrying that you are cheating on me when you are really dying, and I’m the worse girlfriend in the world. And—
***
“Sorry, I’m late.” You smile.
The reason for your lateness is in your hand — all twenty-four of them, wrapped in clear cellophane, long stems crowned with yellow velvety petals. My favourites.
“Can you believe I had to try three shops before finding the right ones with that orange hue you like.”
I take the flowers I don’t deserve. Cradling them, they weigh heavy against my arm. As we walk away, you take my hand, but your fingers don’t lace with mine. The article I read in Cosmo said, interlocking fingers were a display of deep intimacy. I stare at your lovely present and start to wonder.
