In Too Deep by Billy O'Callaghan Page A

of those that we had wordlessly agreed to keep up this charade of acting like civilized human beings. Later, there would be all the time in the world for tears.
    I could feel her watching me, watching the amount of butter I was using, but she let it go because I was no longer her fight. She sat across the table, her spoon troubling a bowl of sodden bran flakes, doing more poking than actual digging. She was wearing a blue-and-white tartan-patterned blouse, sleeveless, which made a nice boast out of her narrow body, and her hair was tied up in the way she knew I liked. She looked good. Better than good, great. I ate my toast and tried to forget that this morning’s effort at alluring appearance was not for my benefit but for his.
    â€˜It’s funny, don’t you think, when you consider all those enormous planets and moons spinning about in all that space.’
    Not ha-ha funny, but yeah, I suppose there is a bit of the Groucho about it.
    â€˜Space is empty and yet it’s full of stars. How can that be? And this business of the eclipse, this one moment when our rock and another rock defy all that emptiness to line up exactly with a great flaming ball of gas, well, it puts in perspective how small our lives are, and how insignificant. Think about it; the next time this happens could be hundreds of years from now, maybe thousands. We’ll be gone and forgotten, and all the arguments and the laughter will be gone, too. Christ, it’s enough to make you go cold.’
    I poured myself another half cup of coffee, then out of spite helped myself to the last slice of toast. This time she watched me openly while I smeared on the butter.
    â€˜You should use the spread, you know,’ she said, going delicate with her disapproval for the sake of the truce. I could feel the edge in her voice, though.
    â€˜Should I?’ As serene as you like. I can be a bastard and a half when I set my mind to it.
    But this morning she was beyond stepping into my traps. She dropped her spoon into her mess of bran and raised both hands in that gesture of surrender that made me want to bounce her off every wall in the room and at the same time to sweep her up into my arms and never let her go. ‘Forget it,’ she said. ‘Your heart, your choice.’
    I took a bite of toast, chewed it without enjoyment, then dropped the slice in favour of the coffee. She watched me until I met her stare and then she did something with her mouth, a little crimping of the lips that might have been a smile or might not, and she looked away. The tablecloth was bunched a little at the corner to her right, the material dragged out of shape by the weight of the coffee pot, and she fumbled to undo the ruffles and then ran a hand across the surface, as if to assure herself of the smoothness. The tablecloth was hers – she had chosen the style and design, white cotton with silver embroidered geese, quaint but pretty – but when it came to the matter of dividing the possessions she insisted that it remain here. She had no need for it, she said, and then, almost as if she’d been caught in a lie or some particularly sordid act, she mentioned that Jonathan’s kitchen table was round rather than square. That seemed to imply something, though even now I can’t quite figure out exactly what.
    We sat there, passing the time with empty words and stolen glances. Then, finally, we heard the rumble of the car outside, and we both knew that it would be Jonathan, her new main man, a lumbering oaf who had somehow become the answer to all her problems.
    â€˜Look after yourself,’ she said, in a small voice.
    I almost made a witty riposte, but held back. She didn’t deserve much, not after all that had happened, but she de-served that. I nodded. ‘You can send that one to the bank,’ I said, squeezing into a smile. ‘From now on, it’s number one all the way.’
    In the hallway, I put a hand on the small of her