It's Only a Matter of Time

He was smoking a joint when she came in from work. “You want some of this?” he said. He was nonchalant, laid out on his back on the settee. The television was on.

“Sure,” she said, setting her handbag on the floor. “I’ll take some. Just give me a second.” She moved to the window and pushed the sash up half way. “There’s a fog in here,” she said. “I can barely even see for it.” He didn’t say anything. She moved back, took a seat on the arm of the settee by his feet. He passed her the joint.

“Thanks,” she said, taking a drag on it. The ashtray was balanced on his belly, piled up with roach and douts. It moved slow and subtle as he breathed. She flicked the burning end in to it. “How was your day?” she asked.

“Same old,” he said, eventually. “Same old.” She nodded, taking another drag, deeper. He kept his eyes on the television. “How was yours?”

“Uh-huh. You know,” she said. “Same.” The show on the TV ended, credits rolled. She finished the joint, stubbed it out in the ashtray. “That was harsh,” she said, coughing. “Don’t you think?”

He cocked his head round to look at her, sighed, and stretched his hand out. She caught his fingers in hers. They were cold and clammy. “I need a drink,” she said. “I’m going to fix a drink. You want me to fix us something?” He kept his fingers tangled in hers. “Is there any beer left?” she said. “I could manage one.”

“Sure,” he said. “I’ll take something. You’ll have to check.”

She went to the kitchen. The dishes from the previous night were still by the sink, stuck with leftover food. There was no beer, only empty bottles and tins laid by the bin.

“Honey,” she called through to him, “We’re out of beer. There’s not a drop.” She moved round the kitchen, pushed crumbs from the surfaces on to the floor, cleared the waste from the plates and stacked them in the basin. “Remind me,” she started, “remind me to take this bin down tomorrow.” He responded, something unclear. “Let’s see if there’s something else in here for drinking,” she thought aloud. She searched the cupboards. “We’ve got Port,” she called through again. “You want some Port?”

Silence.

“It’s Wednesday,” she went on. “It’s only Wednesday. Let’s have some Port.”

She took through the bottle and two glasses, set them on the coffee table and poured out their drinks, generous measures. He stayed laid out, watching her. She was concentrating hard, taking care to make sure they were equal.

“Do you remember that Friday afternoon we drank a whole bottle of this?” she said, sipping at her drink. His eyes were sleepy, but he smiled.

He took one of the glasses from her, propped himself up and drank. “Yeah,” he said. “How come we decided to do that?”

She shrugged. “You know I can’t remember. I can’t even remember.” He offered out his cold hand to her again. “It was a Friday, I guess,” she decided.

She took his fingers in hers and toyed with them. They were stained faint brown and the nails were down to the quick. His thumb nail was black and raised up. She traced over it lightly.

“This one has been threatening to come off for a while now, huh.” she said.

“It has,” he agreed. He took his hand back, inspected the nail, then moved the ashtray and scratched at his belly. Tufts of hair poked out from under his shirt. “It’s only a matter of time I guess.”

They sat for sometime, until their glasses were empty. He’d rolled them another joint, and they’d shared it quietly. Another show started on the television. The volume was low, but they watched anyhow. She emptied the dregs of the bottle into their glasses.

“I thought they killed him off?” she said, motioning toward the screen with her glass.

“No,” he shook his head. “I don’t think so. Someone else maybe.”

“Oh,” she said. “I would have sworn it was him too. Show’s what I know. That just shows what I know.”

He stayed watching, but she couldn’t commit to it. She couldn’t commit to the television, or to any of the magazines on the coffee-table, or to the washing-up in the kitchen. Instead she got up, went to the window. It was early evening but bright out, and the breeze that drifted under the sash was altogether fresh. There were a few folks on the street below, making it home from work, or maybe not; maybe heading out to supper instead. She stayed facing out, her back to him.

“I could do something tonight,” she said. “What do you think? What do you think to doing something tonight honey?” An old couple walked by, arms linked. She watched them, imagining what they might say to one another, the old man and his wife.

“Have you something in mind?” is what he said, in time. The old woman below laughed out, and the noise carried up to her.

“When’s the last time we went out?” she mused. “I mean really went out?”

“I can’t recall,” he said. She turned to him, laid out on the settee. He was picking at a bowl of salted cashews on the coffee table.

“Let’s do something,” she said again. “Let’s really go to town on it. What do you say to that?”

He chewed on a nut, slowly. She saw he savoured each bite. Then when he was done he licked the salt from his lips, and from the tips of his fingers; from the blackened thumb-nail, and reached for a handful more.

“We could get food,” she said. “I know I’m getting hungry. Aren’t you starved? We could go get some roast chicken, or some juicy steaks.” He began to nod his head. “We haven’t had steaks in an age. I could really eat a good steak now. And a cold beer. Uh-uh, that’s what we’ll do: we’ll go down to the grill and get a couple of peppered steaks and some cold beers. What do you say to it?”

His head was bobbing, more enthusiastic. “Okay,” he said. “Why not?”

She said she might like to take a shower, to freshen up for supper. “I need to wash the day away,” is what she said.

“I’ll finish watching this show then,” he said. He upped the volume on the television. “You shower, and I’ll be right here when you get out. Oh, and leave the door unlocked, will you? In case I need to pee.” He took a handful more cashews and laid back out on the settee.

*

In the bedroom she dried her body carefully. Her thighs were mottled red from the hot water, so she sat on the edge of the bed, blew on them lightly. When they calmed, she stood without a stitch on, preparing. She dabbed perfume on her neck, then brushed out her hair and tied it loosely. It was still damp, but she was ravenous now. A little damp didn’t fuss her. She spread some cream on her arms and her stomach, then her face, watching in the mirror. Her eyes were a little red, maybe, but it didn’t matter so much – they were going for steaks. Finally she picked out some clean clothes; a linen summer-dress and sandals. The linen felt cool against her hot skin.

In the lounge he was still on his back. The ashtray was rested on his stomach again; a joint glowing in it.

“Are you ready?” she said. He took a drag on the end, then let out the smoke in a thick plume.

“You know, we don’t need to go out tonight,” he said. He cleared his throat. “I don’t think I’m much in the mood to go out anymore.”

She stood in the door –frame, facing him. Smoke coiled around his head. The window was closed now, and the blinds pulled down.

“Let’s have take-out,” he said. “Let’s just have take-out tonight. Chinese or something.”

She let her hand-bag slide from her shoulder, to the floor.

“Look though,” he said, lifting his hand up towards her. “Look what just happened.” Where his thumb nail had been was pink and moist and fleshy. “The nail came clean off. It just came right off, quick as you like.”

“That’s something,” she said.

“Isn’t it?” he said. They fixed eyes briefly. Then he turned his head to watch the show that was starting on the television.