Page 56 of What It's Like in Words
Don’t you want to be in it?
No, I don’t want to be in it. Are you fucking mental?
Suit yourself.
I ran from under the shelter and held my face up as lightning struck the sky. It was incredible, and I was the girl in my book running into the rain at school; that emancipating moment before her school shirt turned see-through.
Enola, come on, he said. You’ll be hit by a bus. I held out my arms to him, hoping that he would shake off his mood, but he told me that my mascara was down my face.
I returned to the shelter and asked him why that bothered him, and he didn’t answer. Then he said that he wasn’t going to stay at mine anymore.
Why, because of the rain?
Don’t be silly. Because I need to write.
I told him that there was no way he would write tonight, and he frowned. What’s that supposed to mean?
Just that you’re drunk, I said as casually as I could. A car splashed past. He grumbled that it was illegal to splash people. I held his collar, but he didn’t take his hands from his pockets. I joked about how that couple ordered a cheese platter to go with theironeglass ofonewine, but he hummed like he had realized something.
I think you’d quite like that, wouldn’t you, Enola?
I let go of his jacket. What?
A nine-to-five. A boyfriend in banking. Big fancy wedding. I think you’d be happier with someone like that rather than a failed middle-aged writer. And you could have a nice job in admin. You’d like being told what to do and where to have the office party. Or be a stay-at-home mum.
Excuse me?
I’m just saying, honey, you never actually want to write.
I am writing!
Why haven’t you sent your manuscript to that agent yet?
I felt conflicted then, because I should have sent it off. I should have finished it. But every time I opened my laptop, I thought about him. He was working so hard. He had always wanted to be a writer.Heshould have this opportunity, but I did, and I knew how he felt about that. I wasn’t meaning to hold myself back but I just kept thinking if he could only finish his book first so that I could finish that little bit behind him…
I will send it, I said.
When?
When will you send yours?
Don’t do that.
Your book is brilliant and it’sready. Why not now?
You really don’t fucking get it, do you?
That was it: the band that we had been stretching over the past few weeks snapped. I could no longer say that the last fight was the last fight; it was just another one and the next could be worse. I told him that he didn’t need to swear at me.
Oh no, oh god, notswearing, he mocked.
I started to cry, and he half laughed, half shouted: Oh, here we go again,poor Enola! He lifted his arms, and I flinched. He looked confused, and then his eyes narrowed.
I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—
Youactuallythink that I would hit you?
Excuse me, are you okay?
