Page 17 of Mayfly

The crumbs on my coat.

The scuffs of dirt on my brogues.

I have to clean them.

I have to clean myself.That way I can't smell Harry's sweat on my skin or his spit on my neck—

I take a deep breath; in through my nose and out through my mouth. I zone in on the cold screen of the cheap burner phone pressed against my ear. I focus on the breeze as it rushes past my face. Then I close my eyes and concentrate on how heavy I am, what my socks feel like, and the hardness of the soles of my shoes.

“Have you got that?”

“Yeah, yeah,” I answer Marius, and prop the phone against my shoulder so I can use both hands to open the satchel.

“Do you know where that is?”

I roll my eyes, “I’ll figure it out,” and pull out the already open packet of disinfectant wipes. The same packet I used before leaving the powder room of The Ritz.

After cleaning my gloves, I look around for a rubbish bin.

“And the time?”

“Yes, Marius, goddamnit. Time, place, all locked in. But what if this shit changes again?”

“It won’t.”

“I’m not sure if I believe you.”

“You must have trust.”

I exhale and listen to my frustration as it crackles through the receiver and into my ear. “I think this might be my last job.”

“What makes you say that?”

I hesitate. “I guess just being home is making me see my life a little differently.”

“See. I told you it wouldn’t be so bad.”

“Don’t you dare take any credit for this.”

“Why would I? I lose you, I…" he stumbles over his words like our relationship isn't purely transactional. "I lose… I lose money.”

That's what I thought.“And when I lose you, I get my sanity back.”

“Is that how it works?”

“Who the fuck knows? But I can’t keep doing this forever.”

“We could—”

“Is there anything else?”

“From me?” Marius hesitates, and I pray to god he doesn’t say what I know he wants to, because I just can't take any more of his propositions. “No. You are free to spend your night however you please. Though I expect it will involve your dick in at least one more woman.”

I take another deep, grounding breath. "I can't make any promises," I say, just to spite him, and tear the phone apartwithout bothering to hang up the call. Wrapping the case and battery in the used wipe, I toss them in a bin on my way back to where Jude is sitting. As as I slip the SIM into my trouser pocket, I round the last row of white trellises, and—

“Jude?” My voice comes out sharper than I intended as an arrow shoots me straight in the heart. He’s gone, and the empty bench answers me with silence. Like it’s mocking me for thinking that our chance meeting would be reason enough to give up this fucked up life that I’ve been existing in for the past fifteen years.

But…

---