The End

I'm stood pressed against the glass doors on the tube holding onto the railing knowing it is me who is causing that smell. I work in a restaurant so instead of bringing my work back home with me, I only bring back the stink. I'm trying not to make eye contact as those standing very close to me look at me questioningly and then avoid my gaze making me feel like the homeless man whom everyone avoids on the bus. Man do I stink. With much bravery I start to look around and notice couples here and there, some merely standing next to each other talking, others holding onto each other, and one half of a couple tragically and embarrassingly way more into him than need be. The guy is deliberately being nonchalant whilst she is desperately trying to engage him in conversation. Poor thing. It makes me wonder when it is you know.... I mean know when something is on or just totally off? When do you know it's over? So here goes, yet again my favourite topic..... Love.

The End

'Table for two,' he says to the waitress who smiles and beckons for us to follow. His hand instead of holding onto mine brushes it lightly as he passes ahead of me not looking back to see if I'm following. We are seated and the waitress takes my coat and scarf with one hand and places the menus down with the other. She leaves and we both look at each other and smile. I begin to say something but he is already studying the menu. I look down at mine, quickly browse through all the fancy descriptions, nothing really catching my eye.

The waitress returns and he orders my favourite wine attuned to my tastes with no need for prior questions. He looks at me and smiles a big open smile, his eyes crease at the sides and his lips look fuller. He reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. I let him, allowing his fingers to trace a pattern on my palm unconsciously, an old habit of his. He looks around the room, his chin resting against his other hand, his arm upright resting against the edge of the table. The small smile on his face never leaves as he continues to look around. I slowly pull my hand away and he instinctively calls the waitress over and orders on my behalf. The food arrives shortly and without being asked he passes me the salt.

Our movements are synchronised. We perform the dance of old friendship and love. We know each other. There is nothing new to discover nor to learn. His kindness and his knowledge of me is stifling. The routine of our lives, the everyday occurrences and anecdotes are of no interest. The constant pining for more is exhausting. We're both weighed down by our friendship, our love. The words that begin to flow from his lips hold the melody of his accent, the intonation of the music I was so familiar with. He chuckles lightly and a part of an old memory comes back slowly, filtering through to the surface. The first time I heard his voice and the curiosity it aroused in me. Where was he from? I wondered. His voice was the collection of all the countries he had travelled to throughout his life, all the stories he had heard and all the cultures he had adopted as his own. A strange scale of notes resulting in the most unique sound I had ever heard. He had told me mine was laughably generic, that no matter where I went I could possibly not hide where I was from. Where my roots were. I had told him I had nothing to hide from and he looked at me straight in the eye and after a moment smiled and said quietly, are you sure?

Spontaneous trips abroad, drunken nights in and out, spilling red wine over my mothers very expensive white rug, panicking, more panic until we decided to go out and buy a knock off a fact that she was not aware of even till this day, the screaming matches, the eventual make up, the multiple doubts, the reassurance, the packing, the moving, the three words which made me want to scream, more packing, more moving, the music, the food, his music, his voice, the secret smiles, the pressure of his hand as he held onto mine, getting squashed on the tube, never losing eye contact, the phone calls, the emails, the dancing, the falling out of clubs and bars and cabs, the photos, the letters, the packing, the moving in together, the screams...the shouts...the whispers.

The silence.

I look at him and see his smile. It's different now, it's tinged with something alien. Not sadness, nor happiness. Something different or something missing? We had moulded into each other without realising. We had taken each other away from ourselves, his voice wasn't music anymore. It was just a familiar tune.

We both look at each other, both of us running our right index finger over the rim of our wine glasses. A mirror image. He looks at me, 'I love you,' he says simply, sadly. I hesitate, I smile. 'I love you too,' I respond, brightly. He strokes my hand and gazes at me, slowly he pulls his hand away.

We both lean back into our chairs.

We both know its over. It's finally over.