John has gone out for air because he’s cross with me. And he ought to be allowed to be cross with me. Everyone is cross sometimes. And I am useless and difficult and I make him do everything (his words)(the last bit, not the others but the gist is the same). John is gone because he’s annoyed, and I am doing abominable things to my violin, which is squawking in protest. A tear runs down my nose and lands on my violin. Infuriating. Overreaction. Could be an overreaction, but it depends on how this plays out. In retrospect, it could seem an entirely appropriate response. Prescient, even.
This line of thought is a pit, I know, but here it is, growing up its smooth, dark walls round me, and all I can do is stand in the bottom, screeching on my violin. He goes for a bit sometimes, John does. Just for a bit. I have done (and will do, I expect)(I have my dreadful reputation to uphold after all) worse things, and he’s come back. It isn’t a question of whether this irritating thing is the worst irritating thing. More a question of when my pile of irritating things will turn into something insurmountable and it seems easier to stay away than it is to scrabble over them back to me. John would be disgusted if I voiced this aloud. ‘How much rubbish do I have to sit through before you get it through your skull I’m not going anywhere?’ I can hear it in his voice in my head. Doesn’t help.
I know his tread on the stairs when I hear it, even through the sound of my violin. He’s carrying something. But he’s got the door into the flat open before I’ve the chance to deduce what it is.
“Get the door will you,” John calls over my playing. Set down my violin and come rather stiffly to shut the door behind him. He’s got a bag of takeaway in one hand and a pack of beers in the other. He carries both into the kitchen. I go back to the window and pick up my violin. John pokes his head back into the sitting room, “Leave that for a bit, yeah? Come and eat.”
“Not hungry,” I answer, trying to ignore the smell of curry (he went to my favourite place)(it’s my favourite mainly because it’s always still open when I think of eating)(besides that the food is delicious).
“Yeah you are. You skipped lunch; all you’ve had today is toast. Come on.” My stomach growls and John laughs, “Come on, you. In here, please. You can sulk after you’ve had your dinner.”
“Fine.” Set my violin down and join him in the kitchen. John nudges my share of the food across the worktop toward me and twists a pair of beers away from their mates, handing me one.
He takes a long pull off the other and sighs with satisfaction before opening his own container of food and tucking in with relish. After his third bite, he pauses and looks up at me, “You waiting on a gilt invitation or something?”
“Gilt invitations are gauche, John,” I finally open my carton and my mouth begins to water at once.
John snorts, “Pardon me; I never went to finishing school.” Take a big bite and aim a gentle kick at him. He kicks back but he’s smiling with pleasure at the sight of me with my mouthful, “That’s more like it.”
“Will you ever stop nursemaiding me, John Watson?” Unfortunately for my dignity and my point, the remark is followed by a tremendous hiccough.
John laughs and pats me on the back, “Not likely.” He fills a glass of water at the tap and hands it to me. He watches me sip slowly until the hiccoughs subside. The naked fondness on his face is almost painful to look at. We finish our dinner quietly, John occasionally giving me another little kick. Our sort of caress. When we’ve packed the leftovers into the fridge, John gives my sleeve a quick tug, and I follow him back into the sitting room.
John throws himself on the sofa, and I make for the window where I left my violin. Not to screech this time. I’ll play something nice.Tchaikovsky perhaps, he loves that maudlin rubbish.
“Ooh, fancy a cuddle before you get going with that?”
“I’m nothing if not obliging.”
John laughs perhaps a bit heartier than is polite and pats his chest, “Mmm, that’s what I always say.” I settle onto the sofa next to him and lay my head on the spot indicated. John pets my hair, and I sigh. He clasps one of my hands and raises it to kiss it, “Feeling better?”
“No longer in the mood to sulk, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
John laughs a little sheepishly, “Mmm, sorry I’m such a grumpy arsehole all the time. How do you put up with me?” He kisses my hand again.
Look up at him, “I was going to say the same to you, in honesty.”
“Well what do you know?” John kisses me, “We’re a perfect fit.”
