It was barely 4am and Lorna lay rigid in their marital bed, something like rigor mortis clutching at her bones. The sagging mattress groaned beneath her as she shifted, turning on her side to face her husband sleeping peacefully beside her. Worn bed springs squeaking in protest, she tried to readjust her form but these limbs felt awkward and foreign. Her body a stranger, Lorna looked down at her naked flesh beneath the duvet and a shaky breath whistled through her nostrils. Since she’d let someone else ravish this body, nothing felt like hers anymore. What was once entirely her own, shared seldom with Lars, now had the fingerprints of someone else cattle-branded into her marshmallow skin. If a forensic team were to dust this body for evidence, there’d be the unique prints of John Carter littered across her hips. Thermo imagery would betray her, too, instantly revealing the hot kisses of John’s breathy lips scattered down her spine. Suddenly the duvet that weighed down on them both felt like the wrought iron of a cell door and Lorna gently peeled the sheets back, the cool air of the bedroom lapping at her, cotton-fresh laundry detergent filling her nose.
Lorna’s bare feet padded across the floorboards, she bent at the hips to snatch at her running attire, left crumpled by the foot of the bed. Moving as quietly as she could, Lorna pulled her leggings and sports bra on. The sky outside their window was awash with dusky watercolours, the clouds creeping across the moon and sun as they fought for centre stage. She tied the laces of her running shoes, fingers trembling and fumbling with the material. The wedding band and diamond beneath it stared back at her, wide-eyed. They used to sit so proudly wrapped around her slender digits, a proud proclamation of the love she shared. Now? They sneered at her. She could barely make eye contact with them, wincing at their adamance. Her somber brown gaze slid away, landing on Lars’ sleeping body still tucked in their martial bed. Rising to her feet, Lorna left the bedroom and jogged down the stairs. The house smelt like last night’s dinner and old incense with a hint of fresh laundry drying in their utility room across the hallway. Clicking the locks of the front door behind her, she flew down the front steps and sprung into a steady jog beneath the early morning sunrise. Trainers thudding against the pavement, fists clenched tight as she jogged the first few minutes of the usual route, Lorna let the wind run its fingers through her hair. Her chest heaved with each inhale, lips pursed with the exhale.
‘A run will clear my head…’ she thought to herself as the streets rolled past her in a blur.
She hoped with each stride, her head would empty. The rhythm of her run beat like a drum in her chest, matching the steady pulsing of her heart. Yet still the chatter of guilt crackled in the back of her mind, reminding her that there was no running away from consequence.
___________________________________
Lars would be at work. She pictured him bravely smiling at his colleagues, pretending like their home wasn’t flooded with the unearthing of secrets. He’d be sat bolt upright at his desk, no doubt. Brow knitted together like he did when he concentrated. He’d be staring back at the photo of her he kept beside his screen. Did it make him sad? To see her so nonchalantly poised at his desk, smiling back at him with the ghosts of happiness on her lips?
She’d spent the morning running, traversing almost the circumference of their hometown. Unwavering. Stopping at nothing. Weaving in and out of tutting commuters. Halting honking traffic. Causing cyclists to swerve. The danger of not looking when she crossed the busy roads, daring a bonnet to kiss her thighs, it made her feel alive. Lorna ran until her joints filled with acid, until her muscles burnt white-hot. When she was sure her husband was long gone, she began the route home. Returning to a house empty of life but full of regret felt like plunging underwater and she swam to the top of the stairs to shower and get dressed.
“I just need to be around someone, Han” Lorna said into the phone cradled between her shoulder and her flushed cheek. “If I spend the day here, just waiting for him to come home, I’ll go fucking crazy-“
Chewing on a piece of charred toast, she listened to the clattering of her best friend washing up on the other end of the line. Lorna began to pace the kitchen, her cashmere sweater hanging loosely at her starved, protruding clavicles.
“Well if you want to spend the next few hours watching Oliver breastfeed until my nipples bleed, that’s your funeral, Lor-“ Hannah’s voice sounded distant, the call on speakerphone as she mothered. “Can you pick up some wine on the way? I’d like to watch you drink it and pretend I’m not a nursing mother starved of anything remotely fun…”
Lorna was already tugging on her Burberry trench coat, pressing the phone harder to her ear with a raised shoulder, cinching the belt around her waist. The loud clatter of freshly-washed pans filled her eardrum and she grabbed a fistful of her car keys from the pot by the front door.
“I’ll bring a Chardonnay. Oaked. You can sniff it whilst Oliver swaps nipples. Love you.”
The journey to her best friend’s house was one Lorna could drive whilst completely disassociating. It took 25 minutes and as she drove, she let the inane chit chat of the radio host seep through the car speakers. Catching a glimpse of herself in the rear view, Lorna winced. Her cheeks had hallowed out in recent weeks, cheekbones jutting out further still than they did naturally. Dark circles clumsily hidden with concealer told the story of her sleepless nights, guilt oozing at her tear ducts. She pressed her lips into a hard line, thumbing the button at her elbow that sent the drivers side window juddering downward. The cool breeze caressed her cheeks, flicking the stray curls that escaped her half-arsed bun into watery eyes. The indicator clicked as she turned into Hannah’s driveway.
Little bicycles discarded at the front steps, indoor toys turned outdoor toys lay abandoned in the overgrown grass and the front door swung open to reveal Hannah with Oliver propped on widened hip. A weary smile tugged at both their lips in greeting, Hannah moving effortlessly to one side as Lorna shouldered past with a bottle of Chardonnay gripped in her right hand. The familiar smell of Hannah’s home greeted her like an old friend and Lorna breathed a sigh of relief. This home was uncorrupted, not sullied by her own mistakes. This was a home brimming with love and life, the sound of giggling children flowing down the stairs. Hannah sighed.
“The boys are too sick for school, apparently…” she mumbled, slippers clapping as she made her way into the kitchen. Her red hair was clumsily pulled into a clip at the nape of her neck. Oliver burbled happily in her arms. “Here. Pour yourself a large one.”
The wine glass tinkered as it was placed on the cluttered worktop. Lorna unscrewed the Chardonnay and cleared her throat as the honeyed wine splashed into the glass. She avoided Hannah’s watchful gaze, the doting look of a concerned mother reserved exclusively for her children and her heartbroken best friend. The two shared a silence, ignoring the elephant that filled the room. The pair, years deep into a friendship more like sisterhood, didn’t need to fill the empty space with small talk. They were far beyond that. Instead, they shared a knowing look that said
“Let’s spend the day not talking about this.”____________________________________
Driving home in the dark, Lorna felt the effects of the Chardonnay tugging at her hands as they traversed the wheel. Reversing into her driveway felt like an extreme sport and she breathed a sigh of relief as she engaged the parking brake. Keys jingling melodically as she unlocked the front door, Lorna silently thanked the wine that clouded her mind. Returning home to Lars filled her with dread, sober. But now? She flicked the hallway light on and glided into the front room where he slept on the reclining sofa.
She stared at the back of his head for a while, admiring the way his hair ruffled at the tip of his spine. Her heart wrung out like a wet towel in her chest. Lorna took some careful steps forward as if she were approaching a nervous street cat and outstretched a hand. Her fingertips gently brushed the back of Lars’ head, plunging into his hair. The feeling of his thick dark tousled strands splaying between her fingers made her shiver.
“Lars,” she called softly. Her voice was thick with the effort of saying his name. It felt like salty guilt on her palette. “Lars, I’m home.”
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