17
Hampstead Heath
Weekends are the loneliest time of all. I don’t even have that taunting clock for company when I’m at home, although Sophia told me she’s never even noticed it ticking, so maybe it’s all just in my head. At home, it’s just me and the four walls. There are chalk marks on the living room wall where I’ve been marking off the number of days since he left me. Today is Day 65. It’s okay, though. I’ve developed a coping mechanism. I usually start “coping” around lunchtime. I grab a cold beer from the fridge, just to take the edge off, but then it quickly escalates to the harder stuff.
Inspired by the song “American Pie,” my new favourite tipple is rye whiskey, which I adulterate with a slug of cheap cola. I sit drinking it on the living room floor, my back against the chalk-marked wall, and I gaze at the sofa he used to sleep on. I play that song over and over. It’s a story about mourning the loss of things that are no more and it fits my mood perfectly. When I listen to it, I picture him dancing all over my sofa. And then I recall the slow dance we had at my sister’s party. That’s the night he kissed me like he really meant it, and yet the very next day he walked out on me without even a backward glance.
I empty my glass in a couple of swigs and sort myself out with a generous refill. By the time that’s gone, my head is throbbing. I know that if I stay within these four walls for the rest of the day I’ll drink myself into a stupor. I need to take a walk somewhere, out in the fresh air, in a place that won’t remind me of him. I grab the Tube and head off to Hampstead Heath.
It was sunny when I left, but by the time I emerge out of the transport system, back onto terra firma, it’s lashing down with rain. I didn’t bring a jacket, but I’m too pissed to care about getting wet. The addition of thunder and lightning doesn’t deter me from my trek up the Heath to Parliament Hill. By the time I reach the brow, my clothes are drenched. I take a seat on one of the benches where you can usually observe the panoramic view of the city. I have the place all to myself because, sadly, the view is totally obscured by the ugly weather. I laugh at my bad luck, picking such a miserable afternoon to come up here.
I keep on laughing and laughing until I start to cry.
It’s good that I let it out occasionally. I’ve learned to embrace these moments. A good screaming session helps too. I tilt my head back, blinking furiously as I gaze up at the heavens with fat splodges of rain battering my face .
“Did you do this?” I yell, between sobs. “Did you send this crap to piss all over me?”
Sheet lightning explodes across the dark skies, as if someone just opened a portal and let in the light from another universe.
“Ray!” I screech, using his name for the first time since he left. “Is that you?”
There’s a sharp crack of thunder and in my drunken state I imagine it’s Ray responding to me.
“You can’t leave me like this,” I shout at the sky. “Don’t you care? I hate you for leaving me like this. Ray, are you listening to me? Why don’t you come back? Please come back to me.”
I try to get to my feet, but the grass is slippery and I stumble, ending up face down in the sodden earth. I lie there, with the rain pummelling me, and I wish it could wash away all this pain that I’m clinging onto.
Why can’t I forget about him? Why does it still hurt so bad?