To Speak of Secret Futures

Our coffees cool between us on the breakfast counter.

You stare at the curls of steam so you don't have to look at me. That's always been your tell. Usually your gaze speaks volumes, so when you refuse to meet my eye, that means you have a secret you don't want to say.

When you came home two days ago, your mood was clear: there was a problem. So we sat here at the counter, just as we usually do, and you told me.

Your company had been bought out and your job relocated across the country. The rumors had gone round the week before and you chose not to tell me – not to worry me unduly. Then the rumors turned out to be true.

Between these dry facts was a deeper truth that your downturned face told me loud and clear: that you had already planned to go.

The way you stopped just short of the truth rocked me.

We've been together nearly two years. Not very long, but long enough to solve the problems new couples often face. Those early days, you used to struggle to tell me how you felt. You'd never tell me your deepest thoughts. You couldn't be honest when there were hard truths to tell.

But we had worked past that. We learned to trust each other and to trust our love. Because people who love each other don't need to fear the future, don't need to conceal weaknesses and doubts.

That's what we told ourselves.

But now, for seven days, you have held back the truth.

You started to plan a future apart.

My tears splash on the counter. My angry shame makes me snatch a towel and mop them up before you see them.

But, of course, you do see them. Because you see all of me.

Brett, my younger brother, has always looked out for me.

One day he told me about a regular at the bar where he worked. Some guy called Malcolm – Mal for short. Accountant, good salary, well-dressed, handsome, great body...

That's how he told me about you.

"Y'know Tracy, maybe Mal deserves a chance?" Brett suggested, after he'd watched me brush off yet another random dude's approaches.

Brett always vetted my partners, even when we were teenagers. That used to annoy me. But then, after three years on my own, and dangerously close to "female, forty and unfuckable" (as Brett not-so-tenderly called me), my resolve wavered. So Brett played matchmaker.

The moment we met, your ruggedness caught my eye.

"Mal. Good to meet you," you told me, somewhat awkwardly. You respectfully extended your hand. So courteous! Good manners are always hot...

(My face must have betrayed my momentary arousal, because Brett's smug look from across the bar annoyed me even more.)

But the chat was very one-way. You were clearly nervous. Honestly, you were almost mute. But you had a self-assurance that rendered me speechless... (Corny but true!) Your peaceful nature attracted me. Of course, a chatterbox such as myself wasn't gonna grumble when a man actually stops to hear her.

After more than a few of Brett's generous pours of bourbon (on the house), your gentle presence became sexy to me. None of my exes had behaved that way. They'd all been chatty, extroverted, even glamorous. Brett never approved of any of them. He thought they were shallow. Maybe that's why you passed the test.

But you weren't shy. As the bar grew empty, you pulled closer to me and you told me how you saw your future: you would marry once, and the two of you would make a home, and the house would have space for two boys, and you would never move from there because that was the only place you'd ever need.

Pretty sure my pussy responded before my face.

What woman wouldn't want all that?

(OK, except for the two boys. For me, one of each was the only answer. That was not open to debate. We never agreed on that one...)

So, we started to see each other regularly. And soon our talk about the future extended far beyond our next date.

Our argument had lasted all day, even as we got under the covers.

The company planned to start on four-month placements, you told me. Then they'd reassess. Four months wasn't that long, you reasoned.

You told me you loved me and you cared about our future. You told me not to worry.

My fears would not abate. They needed assurances. They needed long-term guarantees. But your stubborn honesty wouldn't let you guarantee a future you couldn't control.

"Guarantees are for cars, tools, and homeware," you snapped at last.

My speech quavered. "Why can't you just reassure me? Why can't you just tell me those words because they make me feel better?"

Were my pleas so unreasonable? But you had no answer. Just a shrug.

"Please, just TALK to me!"

My yell shocked even myself.

But your lack of response left me frozen. You'd reverted back to the handsome mute from Brett's bar. A stranger once more.

We turned off our lamps and rolled apart. My palms cradled my face and muffled my sobs.

My phone screen flashed on around 2am.

Brett often sends me a message after he's cleaned and mopped the bar. And somehow, thanks to whatever brotherly ESP he possesses, he always knows when we've had an argument.

My feet took me out of our bedroom, down the hall to the study, where the heavy door would muffle the call. My phone connected as my legs tangled on the bean bag.

"Hey Trace, you're awake... What's the matter?"

My sobs betrayed me before a word could be spoken. For quarter of an hour, Brett heard me pour out my fears.

"What are we supposed to do? He can't plan for a future together, so why are we together at all?"

Brett soothed me. "Problems always feel worse when you can't sleep."

"Thanks bro, does all your help come from Hallmark cards?"

"You're sassy for someone who hasn't slept... OK, let me tell you a story. Me and Graham, we were awful when we met. Every moment was another chance to argue. You don't know; you were kept busy by all those shallow toy boys you collected."

"Hey!" My tears stopped just long enough to protest.

"But really, we were doomed. Graham would shout at me, and my response was always to shout back. We were young and dumb and that was how we thought problems got solved!

"But, you remember a couple of years back, there was that awful flu? That bar exposes me to every bug around, and one day my throat was sandpaper, my muscles ached all over, and best of all – my speech was gone.

"Well, that was the secret for Graham and me: our arguments just stopped. For a couple of weeks, Graham looked after me, cooked for me, nursed me back to health. He hadn't let that part out before: the gentle non-shouty part. And when we saw that we could be good to each other, we started to talk the same way: respectfully, calmly, freely, no pressure.

"So Tracy, here's the lesson: Graham and me, we started from a worse place than you and Mal, we couldn't talk at all. Now look at us... Last week he told me he wanted us to adopt! Fuck me! Two years ago you wouldn't have trusted a cat to us, let alone a baby!"

A stream of snot flowed from my nose, but he could hear my laughter between my snuffles. Brett always knows how to cheer me up.

"Tracy, honey, you deserve only the best... And would you and Mal be together had a smart, matchmaker brother of yours not told you that Mal was good for you?"

He laughed at my struggle to blow my nose and also try to speak. But there was one small doubt that wouldn't leave me.

"But Brett, we've never been apart. Mal can't even talk to me when we're sat next to each other. How can we talk when there's half a country between us?"

"Do you love each other?"

"Yeah..."

"And you want to spend your future together?"

"Of course..."

"Then tell that to Mal. That's all you can do. You can't make Mal talk, but he'll respond the way he knows best."

Our coffees are stone cold. The clock on the stove tells me you have to leave for work soon. Clearly, our argument won't be over today.

How many more days of unresolved stress can we take?

Then you reach out your hand to touch me. My body doesn't stop you. Your warmth usually calms me, but today there's a cold undercurrent.

Slowly, you start to speak, to unfurl those deeply-held thoughts of yours.

"There's never a good moment," you venture, "but... Whenever the present keeps us apart, that just means we can plan for the future."

You look at me. You want me to react. But whatever you meant by those tangled words goes over my head.

"The fuck do you mean, Mal...?" My sleepless self has lost her cool.

You gather yourself and try once more. "The future's not about you or me."

You reach out your other hand, and on the palm rests a small velvet box.

"The future's about us."

My breath stops. My blood seems to both rush and reverse. You open the box to reveal an engagement band.

"My words aren't enough to tell you what you mean to me. So maybe a symbol can say more."

You remove the golden loop from the box. Yellow gleams sparkle across the counter. You take my hand, and at last your gaze meets my eyes.

My fears and defences crumble. My tears fall openly – no fear, no concealment, just joy – and my words overflow too:

"My love, you don't need words to complete me. You settle my heart when we share our secrets and our future."

Composed for Vocal's L*pogram Challenge

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Check out my eBooks on GODLESS or Amazon: the dark and sexy horror story HEAD CASE and the outrageous splatterpunk caper METAGOTH – two tales that feature goth hellblazer Rosa Razor.