THE NARRATIVE ARC

The Love Affair I’m Not Ready to Give Up

Secret pleasures, stolen moments

Shielding my head against the rain, I pull up my hood, carefully tucking in curls before leaving the dry warmth of the building. Out on the street, I wait for a moment before swerving in step with the rest of the pavement pounders making their way to and from work.

It’s my day off. I keep the brisk left, right rhythm until I reach the artisan bakery on the corner of the road. I often visit this place for a coffee-to-go, as it’s just two minutes’ walk from the train station.

Clutching a crisp white paper bag in the same hand, I hold my latte; I skillfully slide my phone out of the front pouch on my bag and scroll for my prepaid ticket. I make sure I slip the handset safely away into a coat pocket before reaching the platform.

I arrive at precisely the right time to hop onto straight onto the train.

I settle myself into the first empty seat I see. It’s just a short journey to the city but it allows me time to stare vacantly out of the dust layered window and empty my head. Work has been stressful of late. I sigh gratefully for my weekly escape.

Taking my first tentative sip of coffee, I taste the creamy bitterness, and my tastebuds murmur in appreciation. A pastry sits warming a spot on my lap, its scent escaping in delicious steaming curls as I peer into the paper bag.

Laying the enclosed serviette on my lap, I dive back into the bag to retrieve the almond croissant I chose from the heated glass cabinet. I nibble fervently, picking loose flakes from glossed lips and taking small sips of coffee between bites.

Carefully folding in the paper corners, I trap the shards of almond with the crumbs and tuck the bundle in the empty cup like a guilty secret. Popping the lid back on and placing the cup back on the pull-down table, I slip a hand into the zipped compartment of my bag to retrieve a small Moleskine journal.

Sliding off the pen clipped onto the cover, I savour the sensation of the silken pages on my fingertips as I leaf through to find a blank space to fill. A collection of buried thoughts floats from my mind out onto the page.

The brilliant blue ink flows brightly onto the off-white page, bold and emboldening. The words twirl elegantly, the curves and strokes of the script please my critical eye.

I fill the page effortlessly, pausing only to check the time before moving the pen to the next. As we approach the terminus, I snap the book closed, concealing what I have written deep in the hidden recesses of my bag.

I immerse myself in the city, gazing up at the wide sparkling sky to admire the architecture as I allow my mind to drift and dream. Dancing through the opening doors in my mind, the beautiful thoughts fall in step beside me.

I’m twirling through time, each moment snipped from a song.

Like most Fridays, I will spend my day at the writer’s studio. I am always honest about where I spend my time, though I don’t necessarily serve up all the details. Just like when I cook I don’t serve up all the pasta, the whole pan of rice, the largest slice of cake. I need to keep a little back, for his sake.

But I will embrace the indulgence of this Friday feeling. And when I have finished writing I will pick up wine and dessert to accompany the meal my husband cooks whilst I drink a large glass of red at the breakfast bar and watch him unwind.

Food is his love language. He knows what flavours delight my palate and the soul food I crave when those metaphorical chips are down — I love him for this!

We will no doubt eat a little too much, have an extra glass to mark the weekend’s timely arrival, and relax into an evening that doesn’t have to end abruptly due to having to get up for work the next day.

Friday nights are ours not to share. There is comfort in the familiar.

Recently though, we have agreed to start monitoring those all too easily consumed calories, cut down the snacks, the mid-week beers and slim down those portion sizes in order to slim down ourselves a little.

We are supporting each other with this, as middle age is so unkind to the waistline.

I’ve been studying the scales, and they are definitely moving in the right direction. Waistbands are less snug and my energy is returning, I’m hoping to be easing into spring and back into my favourite dress by Easter!

I’ve slotted a brisk walk into most of my working days and have taken over some of the cooking, heaps of deliciously low-calorie vegetables are pushing the carb excess slowly… off … the edge … of the plate.

He is not finding it so easy.

A newly acquired desk job means more hours sitting down. The demands of the role restrict the opportunity for a lunchtime walk, and then there’s the long drive to the office twice a week.

Given that his mum had diabetes and a fatal heart attack in her fifties, this weighs heavy on me. It’s his fiftieth soon, and I am writing a collection of poems about our life together in the little journal I carry everywhere with me.

So, for now, I will continue my secret liaisons with pastries. I just can’t resist the crispness of their shiny glazed shells and am seduced by their warm moist centres — they are just so toe-curlingly good!

The thrill that I feel when I secretly purchase one to consume covertly is too much to sacrifice in the throes of mid-winter.

Meanwhile, we revel in our weekend rebellions, paying no mind to the sugar or fat content as we add a wedge of cake to our coffee order.

I don’t see my occasional dalliances with these delectable French fancies as a threat to our relationship. It’s not really cheating is it?

As DH Lawrence once wrote,

“What the eye doesn’t see and the mind doesn’t know, doesn’t exist.”

And love is love.

❤ Thank you for reading.

Here’s a link to my favourite love story from the selection that have been published so far in response to the Love is Love prompt.

I just ❤ old radios Terry Barr and I loved your nostalgic story.