WRITERS ABROAD MAGAZINE: THE THIRD SPACE
‘ I’ ll have a beer,’ you say, without thinking. Then you see the hurt in her eyes as she goes to the fridge.
She comes back and sits on the sofa beside you, laying her head on your shoulder. Her musky scent tickles your nostrils.‘ Did you get my letters?’ she asks.‘ Yes.’ You gulp back your beer.‘ Thank you.’ She lifts her head and looks at you, eyes narrowed.‘ None arrived—’‘— from me,’ you finish. How could you have explained the atrocities of war, the killing, the torture? The sight of your best friend Harry, dead on the ground in front of you, half his brains blown out?‘ I’ m sorry,’ you say, hating yourself for the inadequate cliché. Eve flicks her hair across her face, but not fast enough to screen her tears. It must have been tough on her too.
In the awkward silence, the baking smells waft from the kitchen, reminding you of the flat Afghan loaves you ate for breakfast. As you block out the image, an idea springs into your head. A celebratory dinner. Yes. Eve would love that. You’ ll take her to her favourite restaurant that serves that fancy seafood platter she raves about.‘ I’ ll book a table at Le Poisson Bleu for tomorrow night.’‘ Sounds good.’ She snuggles up closer.‘ Don’ t tell me you remembered it’ s St
Valentine’ s Day?’
‘ Of course.’ Is it really? In the morning you’ ll buy her roses. You think of the eloquence of flowers – like the poppies that you and Harry once stumbled upon in a field. Such beauty – amidst the ugliness of war – had made you catch your breath.
Eve’ s arms wrap around you, drowning your memories and rekindling lost emotions. You hold her tight and bury your face in her silky hair. The coldness inside you starts to thaw. Desire stirs.
You’ re in freefall. But it’ s too fast. The ground is rushing up towards you. Fear turns everything black. Fear of the enemy. Fear of death. Through all this, a voice is calling,‘ Peter.’ Then louder,‘ Peter!’ You pull the cord. The parachute opens. Relief floods your veins. But you’ re not in the air at all. It’ s Eve. She’ s stroking your hair, your cheek, kissing your closed eyelids.
‘ It’ s time for bed, love. You’ re exhausted.’ She grips your hand and pulls you up.‘ It’ s over,’ she whispers, her love washing over you.
You can’ t tell her it will never be over – not completely – but she has reached a part of you that you feared lost. You kiss her more firmly now and follow her up the stairs.
27 | May 2016