I’m back living in the little city. It’s become a pastiche of itself, straight out of Diagon Alley. Orange leaves, woodsmoke and warmly lit windows tempt the uninitiated.
Cutesy shops roost high on cobbled streets that fatly roll, steep like coasters. They’re packed to the gunnels with glossy plastic bait: giant plush bears and swirling jumbo lollipops in ice-cream colours.
I’m shopping but I don’t know what for. I hear him, suddenly, engaged in conversation with the guy behind the counter, more sure of himself than I remember. It’s been nearly 20 years since I’ve heard his voice, and I feel nothing. I put back the nondescript prepackaged bullshit I almost bought into, turn abruptly and walk out the door. It jangles shut.
I’ve seen him, then. It had to happen sooner or later. And whilst walking away is good and strong and the-right-thing-to-do, I can’t abandon myself every time we’re in the same vicinity. I live here too.
I round the back of the shop, cut the corner and start to march the near-vertical hill. He’s there, somehow, crouching on the clichéd cobbles and organising what looks like just-bought filmmaking equipment. I’m shocked. This is a new area of interest. I never thought he’d make it beyond the set texts, the readymeals, the walkable, well-trod paths. He looks up at me, smiles.
Our eyes meet, and something gives way inside me. I’m so tired! The road to growth is weary and I’ve walked it for so long. I want to smile back so desperately, the social code is etched on my amygdala – smile when someone smiles at you; send a thank-you card; say I love you back.
It would be so easy to betray myself in this moment. To pretend that what he did was alright, actually. Pull the warm, butter-soft blanket of denial up to my chin and cover up the wounds. Lie down.
But the blanket will scratch and thin in time – a polyester blend, no doubt.
The body keeps the score, and truth and torment run the lips that remain a hard, thin line as I break his gaze, put one foot in front of the other.