Page 70 of What It's Like in Words
I walk down the hall and imagine seeing Virinder in the doorway: he smiles and holds out his arms and everything falls into place. It’s like what Ruth’s dermatologist said:When a person takes care of one problem area, the other problem areas take care of themselves.Virinder listens to me. Virinder asks what I want. Virinder makesplans for our future. Virinder loves me. Virinder’s only shortcoming is that he isn’t someone else and that’s not a problem anymore. Ruth once said that Virinder was the sort of man you would call to help you drag a body across the kitchen floor.
I open the door and there he is, smiling like he’s won the lottery.
Shit. I’ve made a horrible mistake.
CHAPTER 23
The door opens, and I remember all the reasons why I broke up with him.
“Hello? Enola?” he sings.
An irrepressible frustration emerges like it’s been waiting all day, and I feel like I’m covered in mosquito bites.
“You’re miles away!”
Virinder waves his hands in front of my face and expels air in something like a laugh. It’s always the same sound: indistinguishable whether he’s watching a funny video or being polite to a stranger or in this case just making a basic observation.
“Well, I’ll go first, then. You got my presents?”
He attempts self-deprecation but fails.
“I did. Yes. Thank you.”
I want to make him disappear, but he is hanging his Barbour jacket on the hook, putting down his leather bag, removing his heeled shoes.
“Oh, baby girl,” he says. “I’m right here.”
His eyes are wet with forgiveness that I don’t want. He needs me to go to him, like a child who storms off only to return for dinner. I shuffle to him, and he sways me as if we’re dancing. Is this nice? I’m not sure. He is still the same; the scent on his neck, the cool feel of his tie. It’s okay. This isn’t a mistake yet; it’s just a hug.
His face inches closer.
Fuck.
He angles his jaw, then he kisses me.
I pull away. “Wait, this isn’t… I mean, could we just sit for a moment, maybe?”
“Of course. Whatever you need.”
I feel some air release. This is fine. I just need to explain my mistake. I sense him smile as he follows me to the bedroom. He always smiles with both rows of teeth. I sit on the bed as far from him as possible and leave the door open, but he closes it and sits next to me. He exhales to show that he is enjoying the moment; he assumes the awkwardness is something else.
I adopt a casual tone. “So, how’s work?”
“Oh, the usual. Dull. Bleurgh,” he says. “Have you had any book news yet?”
“Not yet.”
Virinder loves that I’m a writer, yet despite his fetishization of my profession he never grasped the realities. Once, I told him that I couldn’t afford to go out for dinner, so he said that he would pick a cheap restaurant. I assumed that meant a six-quid burrito, but we arrived at a tapas place in Marylebone, and when the bill came we went halves because he understood that I was a feminist.
“You sound like you don’t really want to talk…” he says with that breathy laugh.
I look down at my bedsheets, but he reaches for my face.
“So, let’s not.”
He turns my face and kisses me again. His hands find the edge of my shirt.
“I guess you really have missed me,” he murmurs. I pull away again. He asks me if I’m okay but leaves no space for my reply. He notices my bruise.
