Lying in the sun with Peter

From the outside, the place looked innocent, the sun catching one half of the brick house where rusty ivy climbed. The other half of the house was always in shade, damp and cold clinging to the rooms.

I moved in nonetheless, sure I could make the whole house glow with warmth, light and love. Yes, there was love. In those early days, love shone through the dark rooms, banishing the chill.

I didn’t like to linger in those gloomy rooms too long, sensing their power even then. Peter and I gravitated to the sunny side of the house, painting the rooms in vivid yellows and reds, as if creating our own suntrap to bask in, like a pair of lizards.

One scorching afternoon, I ran a finger down Peter’s smooth, evenly tanned back. He lay perfectly still, soaking up my adoration and the heat of the day. I shivered, overwhelmed by utter love and desire for him, yet all I could murmur were the usual, mundane words.

“I love you.”

“You too, Honey,” he replied lazily, not even opening his eyes.

I felt the first chill of dissatisfaction. Shaking with need, I kissed his averted dark head and shoulder. Was that a flinch?

“Honey, I’m tired,” he said. “Let me sleep.”

Chastened, I lay beside him, his snores reproaching my need for him. The room’s temperature dipped, and I pulled the duvet over us both, creating a cocoon.

Autumn arrived, as did the rain. Our days of lying in the sun were over, yet we still had the cosy evenings to whisper our plans in front of the dancing firelight.

“We’ll be together forever,” I vowed.

“We should start painting the other rooms,” Peter said. “I’d like a study.”

Panic beat a rapid drum in my brain.

“Why?”

“I don’t know – reading, writing, thinking.” His tone was tetchy.

“You can do all that in here,” I said, hugging him tightly.

Did I imagine the frustrated wriggle away from me? The light dimmed as I stared at his tense jaw.

“No, I can’t,” he said.

The other side of the house began to pull him away; the smell of damp neglect mingled with the scent of decaying love.

Peter became obsessed with eradicating the black mould, spraying on chemicals that choked me. His choice of blue and beige paint repelled me. The message was clear; this side of the house was to be his haven, not mine.

“Stop it, Peter,” I begged. “Have a rest. Come to bed.”

“I’m busy. I want to finish this.”

“And I want you!” I cried.

He turned to me with a haunted look that shook me. “I know you do.”

Winter came and the sunlight vanished from every room in the house. The bare trees outside our windows cast long shadows.

I loitered in the study door, gazing at Peter as he read, wrote or gazed past me. I didn’t dare approach him. He was cold as a stranger.

Late at night, I clung to him, interrupting his dreams. He pushed the duvet from his face, gasping.

“Let me breathe!” he cried.

“But I need you,” I whispered.

His silence silenced me.

Rain ran down the dull brick walls and seeped into our poor, damp house. Shivering in the dark, I felt my own identity swamped, destroyed by disinterest and neglect.

At last, I spoke up. “Stop reading that damned book, and look at me.”

“No, I want to read,” he replied.

“So what am I meant to do?”

He looked at me then, with hatred burning from dark eyes where love had once shone. “You know what you’re meant to do,” he said.

“You’re killing me,” I sobbed.

He shut his book, sighing, still not approaching me. “I’m not killing you, Honey. I can’t. You’re already dead.”

I knew it was over then. I moved out, but not far, Peter, not far.

Spring is coming and through the first tender, green leaves on the trees outside your study window, I watch you. Look up, Peter. I’ll always be here, watching you. Always.