The Long Way Home

Despite that we had been seeing each other for over a year I didn't know his favourite colour, nor did I care to know it. Not once did I ask how his day had been, as the only part of his day that mattered was the part that concerned me.

We spoke very little during our time together if at all. Words were not a very important matter in our relationship. The only use of words during our encounters was when we reached the peak and even though, neither one of us managed to string together a coherent sentence.

He returned my lack of interest in his life by showing an equal lack of interest in mine. The only thing he cared about was his arrival and his departure and all that lay in between.

Never did I lay eyes on his bed or even his house though several times I found myself taking the long way home, simply wanting a glimpse of his front door or a peek through the kitchen window. Several times I found myself parked in front of his house, pretending not to watch her with intense curiosity and intrigue as though I had never before seen a woman. Only once did he happen to spot my car sitting outside of his kitchen window and his face showed no recognition.

By the time he reached my apartment it was normally almost midnight though I was very awake. He never told me that he knew but I knew that he was aware of the hours I spent waiting for him, anticipating the moment when he would knock on my door.

My subconscious was not very quick to let me forget the wrongs I was doing and the injustice that I was causing but I felt no guilt. When it came to Peter and anything concerning him there were very few emotions that I felt.

One night was different. We were seated on opposite sides of the bed, facing away from each other. I could almost feel his rhythmic heartbeats and tried to slow my racing heart so that it beat in time with his. I wasn't feeling very much or anything at all, which was normal.

He was dressed in grey tracksuits and a blue hooded sweatshirt. I was wearing nothing but a fluffy off-white dressing robe.

"What's her name?" I asked. Immediately I regretted it. He made a choking sound and even though I didn't know him very well, I knew that this meant he was at a loss for words.

I ought to have apologised, really, but the words that left my lips weren't the ones that had been thought out in my mind. My voice was shy and small, devoid of its usual seductiveness, and it sounded like someone else's voice. "She's beautiful."

When he didn't reply I felt worse. Regret wasn't something I wanted to feel when I was around Peter and I hated myself for putting us both in an awkward position. Though exploring new areas had never been something that I had feared, new emotions were as welcome to me as Satan was to heaven.

My usual cynicism began to seep back in as I listened to him drive away. I decided that her name meant as little to me as Peter's favourite colour did. She could have his heart and I would have his body.

However, that night changed everything.

Sleep, eat, Peter. That was my daily routine. My feelings for him didn't, wouldn't and couldn't extend past lust. I longed for him though was at a loss as to why; I had as much of Peter as I wanted, what more did I long for?

There had been one night (after the previously mentioned one) when he had hugged me and I had hugged him back, almost instinctively. He whispered in my ear; "Ashlee." Something in my stomach turned over and even though I knew very well what it meant, I dismissed it.

On several occasions he commented on the scent of my hair and my perfume and I replied with a simple thank you every time.

When we weren't beneath bed sheets the atmosphere was awkward and tense and we sat a distance away from each other, staring the floor or the walls or the ceiling. He had a favourite chair in my living room, a purple Victorian antique that he had once said was the softest chair he'd ever sat in when he had been making polite conversation.

There were times when he looked around my apartment, wandering from room to room, taking everything in. He could've simply driven home but he preferred to stay and take a look at the part of my life that didn't involve him.

"You're beautiful." He told me randomly, when he was sitting in his favourite chair in my living room, staring at the blank TV screen.

I looked up, staring at his face for a few moments, not looking into his eyes because they would not meet mine.

"You said that she is beautiful once," he explained. "You're beautiful too." Something odd was happening to Peter as he spoke. And as the realisation that the same, odd thing was happening to me, dawned on my mind, horror filled my body. A hot blush was creeping into my cheeks.

We didn't speak for the rest of the night. We didn't say goodbye.

There had once been a time when I had given Peter little thought during our time apart but the image of his reddened face crept into my mind and often I found myself tracing his name on any surface I could find with my index finger.

Our next visit was accompanied by more words and fluid conversation. "What am I?" I asked, staring into his eyes and not being able to look away.

"What do you mean?"

Slowly, exhale. "I mean, what am I to you? What are we? Are we a couple? Am I your mistress? Am I nothing? Are we nothing?" And then I added to myself, because I needed some convincing, not that I care. Not that it matters at all.

Slower than me, Peter exhaled. "I'm a married man." That was all he said. Our fluid conversation ended there. I felt sorry because it was my fault. Regret was not something I wanted to feel around Peter.

The number of times I took the long way home was on the rise. I found myself parked outside of his house on an almost regular basis and he spotted me more often. His wife never seemed to recognise me or my car.

"Stop visiting my house." Peter commanded as he walked through the door one night.

I paused, a defiant look on my face. But when I spoke my voice was small and shy again. "I just want to see you."

He didn't pause. He spun around on his heel and kissed me. Something in my stomach flipped over. I ignored it because I knew what it meant, I just didn't want to have to acknowledge it.

One Tuesday morning I was sitting in my apartment. It was raining lightly and the sky was very grey and the city felt very gloomy. My heating wasn't working and I was sitting on the sofa, wrapped up in blankets. Tuesday was my day off from work and I always spent it watching Disney movies, wishing that things were as simple as they were when I was five-years-old.

When the doorbell rang I wasn't very pleased because it meant that I had to force my way through the wall of blankets I had built up around myself. Peter was at the door. I couldn't tell if raindrops or tears were sliding down his cheeks.

"She's gone." He said. He didn't come in. "It doesn't matter. I don't love her anymore. She doesn't love me."

I felt guilty and I accepted it. This was partly my fault and, boy, did I know it. I looked down at my feet.

"What's your favourite colour?" I asked, not knowing what else to say.

"Rainbow." A silly, lop-sided, boyish grin was adorning his face. It made my stomach flip over but not because of guilt. "I love you."

"I love you back," I blurted out.

He chuckled and stepped inside. He leant forward, dripping raindrops all over me and whispered in my ear even though there was no one else around but us. "Sometimes the long way home is the only way home."