Category: Issue #18

I was in a lavender field. Or a field of lavender. There were greens and purples everywhere. You were in the lavender field too. The lavender was beautiful, but I wanted nothing to do with you other than your bank details. It smelled like a local market, like I was lingering around the handmade goat soap stall trying to decide if I’d rather the honey or the pine. Soapy and mysterious.

I angled my face away from the sun, raising an arm over my eyes.

Your camera was on me.

I could see all your teeth when you said, ‘Marie, drop your arm. Your tattoos are twisting at some fucking weird angles.’

‘Fuck off,’ I mumbled, but I had already dropped my arm by the time I said it.

‘At least you can still take directions,’ you noted, a laugh twitching in your throat.

When I could stop envisioning myself stuffing you with lavender until you choked and died, I forced my mouth to close.

The lace neckline of my camisole scratched at my chest like a dog at the door. I hoped my skin wasn’t red. I tried to look sultry or dazed or bleary-eyed the way you liked me, but something buzzed close enough to my ear that I felt it. A bee. It landed in my hair. ‘Oh,’ I breathed, trembling. ‘There’s—there’s a bee.’

‘Don’t move,’ you demanded, instantly popping the zoom on your shitty camera.

My voice went high, weak with fear. I wanted to cut my head off and hit you with it, stinger-first. ‘Don’t—I’m, like, really allergic and I don’t have an EpiPen on me.’

‘Marie, are you kidding?’ you asked, but I wasn’t. ‘It’s a fucking lavender field. You didn’t think about there being a million bees?’

I was suddenly very hot.

The rustling of lavender stems was so loud I felt it on my face. Everything shifted, sideways. It left my hair and relief nearly made me sick but—fuck—it settled on my arm. The bee vibrated and vibrated. Skin contact. I could not decide if it was the fear keeping me in my death place or if it was the way you’d said – Don’t move.

Time slipped. Sweat slid down my spine. You were clicking in sync with the humming of the bee. The lavender was humming, too.

Smack!

‘Fuck!’ I yelped, ripping my arm out of your reach, away from your camera—bee be damned. Me be damned. I shook my arm violently, windmilling it like a little kid playing aeroplanes. No bee, but no stinger. Red was spreading like a wound, blood in water—shaped by your hand. ‘What the hell?’ I demanded, eyes wild.

Your eyebrows rose, your mouth so close to a smirk I wanted to kill you for it. ‘I killed it.’

‘And what if you’d helped it kill me? You—’ I stopped to exhale heavily. Distaste curled at my throat, now that terror had ebbed under the wave of shock. My heart thudded as if it was going to find a way out of me.

I ripped my eyes from yours and looked down. I couldn’t see the bee. Somehow the dirt had already swallowed it up.

‘I wasn’t going to let you die.’ You said it like you’d rather say anything else, but you were reading me like a room. ‘Pretending to grieve when the cops came would’ve been harder than getting a good picture of you.’

I swallowed. ‘You don’t mean that.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ you sighed whimsically. ‘It’ll be nightfall before we get out of here at this rate.’

My eyes were hot. I turned to you and you did not look an ounce sorry. You looked like you always did—eyes dark, amusement at your mouth, like you were a moment away from kicking my teeth in just to photograph the wreckage.

You made me feel fucking crazy. I felt it as I curled my toes in the damp earth of the field.

Fine.

I let go of my body, hoping my imminent death wasn’t in the slant of my mouth any longer, hoping yours was. I was making my own skin crawl and there was a roaring in my ears that sounded like a thousand bees. Neither of us spoke until the rain started; water misted across my eyelashes and your knees cracked as you stood, moving closer.

‘Don’t move,’ you said for the second time that day. I was the lavender and my hair was turning to goat milk soap out of the corner of my eye. I didn’t move. ‘Don’t blink.’

I sneered. ‘Is there anything you want me to do?’

You levelled a look at me, hate in your eyes. You probably stuck photos of me on a dartboard, but—I got the most likes on your Instagram. Maybe that was in your eyes. I felt it in mine every time I saw you’d posted another one. I liked being looked at, just not by you.

‘We should finish up anyway,’ I suggested, clearing my throat.

The laugh was startled out of you. ‘What? Why?’

‘My nipples are gonna start showing through my shirt…’

You eyed me, stepping too close, your breath hitting my cheek and ghosting down my skin warmly—we were in the opposite of a cold spot. Maybe because I had said it, I felt my nipples tighten. I thought about throttling myself too—to bee or not to bee, my hands or lavender stems?

 ‘Oh, that’s sad. You thought I’d care?’ Your chest shook with soundless laughter. Your shirt brushed mine.

‘Fine,’ I agreed flippantly. ‘No, I can’t think of anything I’d rather do than stand here getting wet while you photograph my hard nipples. That sounds really good.’

Your mouth did that ridiculous twitch.

Revulsion shivered on my tongue.

If I had driven here myself and wasn’t being paid to be in the lavender field, I’d figure out a way to bring the bees back, sting your airways swollen so you and your camera could die in each other’s arms until you decayed—though the field’s owner would probably find you before then…

I smiled and I knew it looked like normal. Soapy and mysterious. Honey or pine.

Water dripped off my eyelashes like tears and your camera clicked.

‘Crouch,’ you said, and I did. Wet dirt caught the edges of my white cotton skirt.

‘Leg out,’ you said, and it was. ‘Not like you’re fucking Spider-man… Yeah, Marie. Like that.’

The rain got heavier and you paused to take your hoodie off. I watched you wrap it around your camera like a swaddled baby to protect it. The water dripping between my shoulder blades down my spine was colder than it had been moments before.

‘Okay, lay down.’

I stared at you. You let out a quiet laugh and nudged me with your foot. I gritted my teeth as I put my back flat to the dirt and rain fell into my eyes. Somewhere under me was the dead bee.

You hummed, bracketing me with your legs as you peered down through the lens.

The symbolism of this moment was not lost on me.

‘Grab the dirt,’ you said, leaning down.

Mulch and soil curled between my fingers and my palm, digging into me. As water dribbled down my hand and back into the ground, I was as much the dirt as I had been the lavender. I was the field. I lost sight of you. My eyelashes fluttered and there was the scent of wet earth and lavender roots moving under me like a wave, like the rolling clouds, like the flowers buckling under a strong breeze.

Your foot nudged the side of my chest and I wrenched my eyes open to see you crouch over me, shuffling back to get the right angle. Your hair was clinging to the underside of your jaw, rivulets down your bared throat.

If I was the lavender field, you were either the sun or you were the rain. Invasive.

I wasted a second thinking about why you hated me. I hated you intimately and you hated me just as much, but I was not paying you to be photographed a slip of fabric away from being naked in a field half an hour from everyone you knew. Maybe it was because I hated you, but during our first shoot together you’d put me on my knees in an abandoned house, crunching in cicada shells and small cockroaches, and made me touch cobwebs so thick I couldn’t see through them.

‘Marie, you—’

After a second, you nudged your camera down so we made eye contact. I realised you had spoken. Why? ‘Hm?’

There was quiet. Nerves sparked in my chest as you stared, eyes too dark to be knowable. Rain slipped over your philtrum. ‘Do you regret working with me?’

I shuddered in the cold. ‘What?’

‘You fucking hate coming out with me,’ you shrugged. A strange smile corrupted your mouth before you fought it off. ‘And you only work with me, right? I can’t be enough for you.’

The water in your hair hit my throat like acid and the soap of my neck bubbled. I couldn’t say I cope by picturing your death over and over, so I said, ‘Uh. I don’t only work with you.’ The smile on your mouth stole over to mine, and it felt insidious. I was too close to you in that moment. ‘I do post other photos on my page that you didn’t take of me. I…I figured you’d seen them.’

‘No,’ you answered, head tilting. The smile was yours again. ‘No, Marie. I don’t follow you on Instagram. You’re just never busy when I need you, so I assumed I was your one and only.’

Oh, there was the urge to vomit. I wondered where it had gone. Lost to the rain, perhaps? But no, you’d found it.

The dead bee vibrated in its dirt grave, near the base of my spine.

Don’t move.

The rain let up eventually, but I don’t think I noticed.

It was edging into dusk by the time we left, twilight eating the shadows of lavender. We thanked the field owner where he stood at the back gate of his house to let us through. He gave us a block of purple vegan lavender soap each, carved with his farm’s name. I had to press my hands to my mouth not to laugh. You made me sit wrapped in the towel you had in the backseat of your car, covered in dog hair and sand.

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Katrina Van Tassel, a restless child plagued by the age-old foe of boredom, found herself in search of a pumpkin.

The eight-year-old shot through the plains of produce. The hodgepodge of orange that contently sat at the edge of her father’s farm was the most familiar of them; the pumpkins were a decidedly perfect size for a lonely child to draw a friendly face on. A real friendly face, not like Edith Sawyer, who pulled on Katrina’s hair when the teachers weren’t looking and bullied her because her father was large. The pumpkins weren’t nearly as mean as Edith. At least, they weren’t to Katrina.

She never chose any old pumpkin for her faces. No, Katrina often bore a pernickety air in her scrutiny, cultivated by a childhood of privilege and affirmation. It always wavered when she reached the pumpkin patch though, where the spindly limbs of the trees felt like they inched closer each time she visited. The forest that lay beyond was eerie to listen to, as odd sounds rumbled in the depths, a reminder that the wood was alive—alive and drowsy like a slumbering beast. The closest she ever ventured was the cobblestone fence at the cusp of the patch.

She poked a myriad of pumpkins and hoisted them up to sit level with her head. At last, she settled on one no larger than the farm well’s pail and plonked herself down amidst the hay and crowds of squash. With a charcoal stick slyly procured from one of the farmhands, she began her task.

The eyes were misshapen and the grin stretched from one side to the other, reminiscent of a smile that unsettlingly showed just one too many teeth. Katrina, nonetheless, took pride in her work, finishing off her masterpiece with a shakily drawn ‘Edith Sawyer’ on the back. She finally had a real friendly face.

The back of her hand rose to rub her cheeks as she beamed, the dark smudges from the charcoal leaving a smear. With a reinvigorated zeal, Katrina leapt to her feet. Her arms wavered under the weight of the pumpkin yet refused to yield, and her unsteady gait teetered as she approached the cobblestone wall. She was finally just tall enough to peek over the stones.

Weakly, she heaved the pumpkin until it comfortably sat on the fence, and with an exhale, eased away from the stones and wood. The sinuous shadows cast by the thicket slunk over the pumpkin, claiming the fruit with the friendly face for themselves.

Satisfied with her achievement, Katrina rested on the grass and chattered away with her new friend for quite some time, until the forest’s shadows disappeared with the sun and the sky blushed pink and gold. The sounds of the farmhands’ voices carried across the wind. They all chorused her name, a sign that dinner would be served soon. Dismayed, she gathered her skirts and bade farewell to the smiling pumpkin; the friendly face that would be long gone when morning came.

The sequestered glen of Sleepy Hollow was wide awake and in a frenzy not one day later. The town was known for its unexplainable occurrences, as the forest that encompassed it and its inhabitants sat far outside the realm of the natural. Often, however, it was the adults of the Hollow that fell victim to its supernatural snares, not the tenderfoot children.

Edith Sawyer returned home the following night in a state of hysteria, so thickly lathered in pumpkin innards that the smell—and the creature that covered her with it—haunted her for the remainder of her days. Whenever she so much as smelt a whiff of pumpkin, even as an adult, the scent sent her into a blubbering, whimpering mess, unable to form a single coherent sentence.

The adults of Sleepy Hollow surveyed the scene the next day. The muddied road Edith had trekked along was riddled with the suspected hoof prints of the famed spectre of the Hollow – the wicked Headless Horseman. Amongst the sludge and wreckage were the scattered remains of the pumpkin. One of which, was peculiarly marked with a broken, charcoal smile.

Spectres, however, did not last. Such terrors of the night are eventually met by daylight, which puts an end to all these evils like adulthood puts an end to childhood. The years came and went for Katrina, and with them came a true realisation of her actions. Of the witching power of her pumpkins. It wasn’t a child’s game to be had; it was real life.

And so, night gave way to day.

Katrina Van Tassel stopped visiting her father’s pumpkin patch.

Her teen years were passing quietly. At the cusp of adulthood, Katrina grew acquainted with the relentless advances of men—such as the overbearing yet widely admired Brom Van Brunt—most of which she politely entertained out of expectancy. She was a well-mannered lady, tamed by the age-old sovereign of tradition. She plastered on a friendly face of her own; the spirit of her youth as far away as that forgotten pumpkin patch.

Then came the momentous age of eighteen. The sky darkened, and an icy chill uncomfortably settled in her bones.

Ichabod Crane wandered into Sleepy Hollow.

Odd as he was, after a month of the stranger cajoling the townsfolk Katrina sought him out for singing classes, influenced by the town’s adoring recommendations. It should’ve been of little surprise to her that his gaze quickly dropped to find her more physically appealing features, and even quicker to find the financially appealing features of her father’s estate.

Katrina nodded and smiled over dinner. Her father was more than happy to answer any questions Crane sent his way about the estate or her, and with every boast that leapt from her father’s mouth, Katrina noted the devious green glint growing in the schoolmaster’s eyes, the words honing Crane’s sharp smile.

Magnanimous, they had said. Her lips tightened, recalling the townsfolk’s words. Charming, wonderful with the children.

When Ichabod Crane’s stare met with hers, Katrina found an overwhelmingly familiar sensation roll over her; that of Edith Sawyer pulling on her hair when no one was looking.

Old memories cracked like dried flakes of blood as Katrina sat amongst the pumpkins. Under the spotlight of the moon, they glowed a spectral orange. Her golden crown was sucked of its vibrancy and colour, until all that remained was a pale husk, much like the rest of her. The night was still around her, holding its breath. Frustrated, miserable words swelled in the back of Katrina’s throat like storm clouds after a long drought riddled with pleasantries and propriety.

The insincere duplicity of the local charming schoolmaster plagued her day in and day out, positively delighting many members of the town. She may have felt sorry for the way he was treated by Brom Van Brunt, if the two weren’t disingenuous towards her and feuding over her like she was a prized horse—a boon that came with the estate. Like a coil, she tightened each day, and tonight, she snapped.

Ichabod Crane’s charcoal smile was skin deep; it was time she carved him a new one.

A farmhand’s carving knife was firmly clasped between Katrina’s whitening, strained knuckles, and sunk into the pumpkin with little resistance. It took longer with the knife, but like it, she was sharper. This wasn’t a child’s game to be had.

The eyes were slanted and calculating–devious like their counterpart. The smile was jagged and unsettling and could not be classified as friendly, even in the ignorant eyes of a child. Katrina felt something more than pride —a swell of something rapturous and cathartic and intoxicating—as she finished off her masterpiece with a steadily drawn ‘Ichabod Crane’ on the back.

The back of her hand rose to rub her cheeks as she scowled, the innards from the pumpkin leaving a smear. With a single-minded fervour, Katrina rose to her feet. Her arms were strong under the weight of the pumpkin, and her tread so calm and resolute that she could hear the Hollow holding its breath as she approached the cobblestone wall.

When she finally glanced down, the true face of the greedy Ichabod Crane stared back at her. Soon, it would stare back at him too.’

***

The Headless Horseman, the grim spectre that plagued the glen of Sleepy Hollow, found himself in possession of a pumpkin.

It had been some time since the young Van Tassel had left him a head. He had thought the once zealous and imaginative child had long since fallen into a deep sleep, the kind that very few wake up from. And yet, it appeared that more than one spectre haunted the Hollow that night. Something must have awoken the ghost of her youth, he thought.

The fingers of one coarse leather glove traced the name haphazardly carved into the back of the fruit.

‘Ichabod Crane’.

The greedy face of the pumpkin sat gravely in the arm of the phantom, and the slumbering forest hummed under the thunderous hooves of the rider’s steed. In the years to come, the only memories of Ichabod Crane left in the Hollow were what whispers remained stained on the wind, and in the carved pumpkins that unsettlingly smiled into the night.

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Sarah scrunches up her nose as the smell of strong cologne drifts her way, doing nothing to suppress the smell of stale sweat and beer. The floor vibrates to the pulsing base of the rock music and she’s struggling to keep up with the conversation. She’s already had two wines launched at her by the same drunk girl. Too many bony elbows will leave her bruised tomorrow and her toes are pinched into ridiculously pointy shoes. She wonders why she agreed to this Friday night of fun with Andrea and Clare. Fun? More like torture. She’s just not in the mood.

Andrea points to the bar, holding up an invisible glass and shouts ‘vodka?’ raising her eyebrows. Sarah shakes her head, no thanks. She’s had enough, unlike Clare and Andrea who join the scrum at the bar. Sarah wiggles her toes, dreaming of fluffy cat slippers and a week’s worth of Married at First Sight. Helping herself to water at one end of the bar, she spots Andrea’s neon-pink bobbing head at the other end, desperately waving a $50 note at the barman. Clare beside her, twirling her blonde waves around her fingers, a classic Clare move, while ogling the guy next to her. She’s been grateful for these two crazy friends these last two weeks. Seeing a free bar stool, Sarah plonks onto it and checks her phone. No new messages from Matt. She hadn’t replied to his messages or answered his calls. She longed to but was trying to play it cool.

‘Move in with me,’ she’d said two weeks ago, during a particularly amorous moment.
‘It’ll be magnificent.’

She’d clear a shelf for a few of his Toby Jugs, get an extra chest of drawers for his clothes, make room for his Star Wars DVDs. They’d shop together, cook together, watch TV together. And think of all the extra opportunities for sex. Turns out he was content with his one jocks-and-socks drawer by her bed, a toothbrush in her bathroom and his Earl Grey tea in the kitchen. He did raise his eyebrows at tad when she’d mentioned sex, but wondered where would he hang his corduroys and shirts and where would he fit his desk? He’d stumbled over his words, said he wasn’t ready for cohabiting and if that’s what she wants, then maybe he’s not the man for her. Sarah was surprised as they’d had an amazing eight months together. But she’d raced too far ahead and scared the corduroys off him.

Her friends offered the usual break-up advice. You need to get back out there. You’ll find someone else. His loss. What about on-line dating apps? Or speed dating? Singles nights? No. No. No. She’s not ready for that minefield yet. It’s all too raw.

‘Your biological clock is deafening,’ Andrea had said. Thanks Andrea. Like I need reminding. Andrea already had the fairy-tale wedding followed by two kids in quick succession.‘She’s only thirty-two, Andrea,’ Clare had said. ’She still has time to pop out a few sprogs before she hits forty.’

Clare likes the single life, but Sarah wants the whole deal: husband and kids, two at least. A life of school concerts, Saturday sport, camping trips, graduations and, eventually, leisurely road trips in a camper van with her greying husband, whom she hoped would be Matt. At this rate she’ll end up as everyone’s favourite auntie, living alone with nobody to talk to except twelve cats, three dogs and maybe a rabbit.

Sarah joins her friends, who present her with another vodka. She groans but follows them to the far side of the pub to chat to some people from Clare’s work. She smiles and pretends to be having a good time, allowing a guy called Mark to chat her up, knowing he’s wasting his efforts. She has no interest in the best waves in Sydney, but lets him drone on about rips and wipeouts while thinking about Matt. She’d rather be sipping a nice chianti at the Italian place with him right now. She misses his strong arms around her, his mop of mad curly brown hair, the cute dimples that appear in his cheeks when he smiles and his blue eyes that sparkle when he talks about his dad. While Clare gets everyone to huddle together for a photo, Sarah reads Matt’s messages again. How are you? Sorry I upset you. I miss you. Can we talk? Please call me.

***

Matt is at home browsing the internet for Toby Jugs. He’s got his eye on a 1985 limited edition Captain Cook jug on eBay with the bidding currently standing at $75. It doesn’t appear to have any cracks or chips and he’s prepared to go to $120 if he needs to. It would be a good investment with only 2000 of these in circulation. He’s aware that it’s an unusual thing for a man of thirty-four to collect, but most of his fifty-three assorted character jugs were his fathers. His mother sometimes complains that the small lounge is too cluttered with a lifetime’s worth of holiday souvenirs, family photos, golfing trophies and her own collection of ornamental plates. All the same, she’d kept his childhood sticker collection and stamp books. They’ve always been a family of collectors. When his dad became ill over a year ago, he’d asked Matt to mind the Toby’s after he’d gone. Matt had kept his word and the Toby Jug collection is still growing. He loves the thrill of finding a limited edition in mint condition. You’d have loved this one Dad, he’d say as he rearranged the jugs and positioned the new arrival in the special Toby Jug glass cabinet in the lounge. Might need to stretch to a second unit soon.

He’d usually be out with Sarah on a Friday night, eating gnocchi or Chicken Cacciatore at a little Italian eatery near her place, the type with checkered tablecloths and soft opera music. His job as a programmer for a large bank doesn’t provide many interesting stories, it was pretty much him and a computer. News? Yep, it worked. All good. But he loved listening to Sarah’s stories, about who she’d interviewed that week for the magazine where she worked as a feature writer, talking animatedly about the guy from The Bachelor or some hot new celebrity chef. He disliked reality TV programs, but he’d listen intently, watching her green eyes sparkle as she spoke, thinking how lucky he was to have met this vivacious red-head. He loved the way she tilted her head and fiddled with her left earring when she was concentrating. He also loved the way her pupils grew wide and dreamy when he kissed her.

Matt sighed. He’d stuffed it up with Sarah. He’d only really wanted time to think after she sprang the moving-in-together thing on him- not to split, but he’d tripped over his words and inadvertently suggested they break up. What was I thinking? I don’t want to lose you Sarah. He’d panicked of course, and all he could think about was what could go wrong if they cohabited. There’s no room for the Toby’s, especially not with all those awful miniature china cats taking up the whole of the shelving unit. There’s also the cat cushions, pillow slips, clocks, dinnerware, an ugly tabby teapot and two sets of kitty stacking glasses. Would she be willing to compromise on the cats?

Then there was the storage situation. Sarah’s built-in wardrobes were bulging with clothes, bags and shoes. She’d mentioned buying a new chest of drawers for his clothes, but he’d need somewhere to hang his trousers and shirts too. Sarah’s clothes are thrown haphazardly over chairs or piled in mounds on the floor in the corner whereas Matt likes to be organised.

His mother is out at her regular drag bingo night with friends. She’d asked him to come along and although it’s a hoot, he’s not in the mood. She’d asked about Sarah again, urging him to go and see her rather than texting. She likes Sarah, more so than his other girlfriends in the past, not that there’d been many. Matt had moved back home temporarily when he’d returned from Melbourne two years ago, but he couldn’t leave his mum on her after his dad died. She insists she’s fine now and that he should go and live his life for himself. Go and sort things out with Sarah, Matt. Don’t let that one get away. And your dad would say the same, God rest him.

While waiting for the kettle to boil for tea, he checks his Facebook. Sarah hasn’t posted since their split, but she hasn’t changed her relationship status to ‘single’ either. Sarah’s friend Clare had checked in at The Willow Tree ten minutes ago and had posted a photo. Matt zooms in and sees Clare, Andrea and Sarah, shiny faces beaming at the camera. There’s a few people with them he doesn’t recognise, one being a shaggy blonde-haired guy with his arm around Sarah, the beach-bronzed type that makes Matt feel ghostly pale. Forgetting about his tea, he slumps back into the sofa, sitting there for a while contemplating his options. ‘Right,’ he says determinedly, before grabbing his keys and marching out the door.

***

Having ditched the surfer, Sarah checks the time – 9.45pm now. She’ll call it a night at ten. With the lengthy queue for the bathroom, she may spend the entire fifteen minutes there. She sees a tired woman in the mirror – makeup worn off, hair sticking to her head and dark circles under her eyes. She looks like she’s been climbing through unruly bushes on a humid day. Yes, it’s time for me to go. As she’s washing her hands, Andrea comes racing in.
‘Sarah, Matt’s here.’
‘Oh.’ She feels jittery. ‘Is he looking for me?’
‘Well, of course he is. Doh!’ Andrea grabs her wet hand. ‘Come on.’
‘No, let him wait.’
‘Don’t leave him standing there too long.’ Andrea says and goes back outside to make sure he doesn’t leave.

Sarah considers her reflection again in the mirror. Raking her fingers through her hair, she makes a futile effort to tame it, before running a tissue along the skin under her eyes, removing some stray smudges of mascara. She sighs. What does Matt want? And will whatever he might be offering be enough for her?

After about ten minutes, she decides to hear what he has to say. If he says he’ll move in with her, she’ll give it a shot. If he just wants to plod along aimlessly, just passing the time, then she’ll forget about him and get herself a big fluffy cat. To hell with Matt and his Toby jugs. She struts out of the bathroom with her head determinedly high.

Matt is smiling nervously as she approaches.
‘Hi Sarah.’
‘Hi Matt.’ Be cool.
‘Look, can we talk?’ Matt asks, blinking furiously. ‘Go somewhere quieter?’

Sarah hesitates for a second. ‘I suppose,’ she eventually replies, shrugging her shoulders, when she really wants to throw her arms around him, her resolution dissolving.
Matt looks relieved. ‘Great. How about that late-night cafe around the corner?’
‘Ok, let me just tell Andrea and Clare.’

The cafe is buzzing, full of revellers drinking coffee in an attempt to sober up and students trying to stay awake while furiously tapping on keyboards. Sarah finds a booth in the corner while Matt orders tea, before sliding in opposite her.

‘Sarah, I’m sorry.’ Matt begins. ‘I reacted badly, and I was hoping we could maybe start that conversation again.’ He’s pulling at his right ear, another of his nervous habits.
‘Sorry that you don’t want to move in with me or … what?’ Has he changed his mind?
‘Just ask me again,’ Matt says. ‘About the living in sin idea.’ He’s smiling now.
Sarah hesitates. He has. He has.
‘Ok, I’ll start. Can I move in with you? If you’ll still have me.’
‘Oh Matt, I-’
‘Wait, before you answer, I want to show you something.’ Matt pulls a piece of paper out of his pocket. ‘I realise that it will be a compromise for both of us, so I’ve made some notes.’
‘Oh, ok.’ Sarah suspects it’s one of his pros and cons lists.

Sarah takes the piece of paper and reads it. It’s titled List of things to consider if moving in with Sarah. It’s not too long. Toby Jugs vs cats, The Bachelor vs Antiques Roadshow, Not overly tidy vs neat freak, Desk for work? Verbal diarrhoea vs liking occasional silence. Cats. Cats. Cats. Sarah’s smirking at Matt as he sips his tea.

‘Something funny?’ he asks when she chuckles, her attempt at playing it cool dissolved.
‘Oh, Matt. You always know how to make me laugh. Look. We will both have to compromise. We each have habits that will drive the other one nuts at times.’
‘It’s a big step, Sarah, and I was just worried we might ruin things.’
‘We won’t. This is us. We’re good together.’
Matt takes Sarah’s hand, rubbing his thumb along the dips between her knuckles. ‘I need to tell you something else,’ he says, blinking rapidly.
‘What is it?’ asks Sarah.
‘I really don’t like cats.’ He’s pulling his ear again. ‘In fact, the live ones make me sneeze and you’ve said you’d like to get a real cat when you’re not renting.
‘I have actually noticed you turning my cushions over, and it also features fairly high on your list,’ she says, waving the piece of paper. ‘I’m not a fan of your Toby Jugs either or Star Wars, but they’re only little things. And I do like dogs too, you know.’
‘So, can we do this?’
‘Yes, Matt, I think we can. I know we can.’ Sarah leans across the table and kisses him. She’s missed him, missed these lips. ‘I love you, Matt Smith.’
‘I love you too, Sarah Lyons.’

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