copyright©2025
Without an Explanation
I cannot say how it happened, only that within the week I found myself drawn back—if only for an evening—into the shadow of the old days. Pete, Mike, and Jack came to collect me in Pete’s car, and we drove to the Royal Arms for a game of poker. My understanding of poker could rival an Eskimo’s knowledge of tropical fruit, but that hardly mattered. He would be there, and nothing else was of consequence. I dressed in my finest lace blouse, painted my face as if auditioning for some glittering stage, and steeled myself for the meeting. We had not spoken since the day I ended things.
The whole night he sat beside me. Quiet, as ever—that part had not changed—but there was a spark in his manner, as though he were pleased to see me again. To my surprise, he even bought me drinks. The others played their cards, and he simply watched, smoking and sipping from his glass. There was a hint—almost imperceptible—that he was flirting. His kindness was unexpected, so out of character that I found myself mentally arranging my thoughts into some semblance of order. Could he have changed? Without meaning to, I let myself drift into the thought that perhaps he wished to find his way back to me.
Near midnight we were told to slip out by the back door. One of the barmen warned that a police car had pulled up outside. The authorities sometimes made casual inspections and fined anyone caught gambling in public. We left quickly and returned to Pete’s house. He opened a bottle of Jameson, offering each of us a glass. Jack refused the glass, taking the bottle itself and drinking straight from it. Pete idly plucked his guitar, Mike was chatting with another fellow who had joined us—but my eyes kept straying back to Jack, watching the level of whiskey drop far too fast. Within the hour the bottle was nearly empty. He was drunk—badly drunk—and when he stood, he staggered.
So that’s it, I thought bitterly. He had destroyed the evening, destroyed the one fragile moment we might have had to talk. The last chance to say what needed saying was gone.
When his phone rang, we all looked up. He answered, then left the room without a word. The front door slammed. Only Pete followed. I sat frozen, turning to Mike in silent question; he only shrugged. Moments later Pete burst back in, breathless.
“He’s a bloody idiot—wants to drive. He’s had the whole bottle. I tried to stop him, but he’s out of his mind.”
I was already halfway to Jack’s car. He sat inside, fiddling with the radio. I climbed into the passenger seat.
“Jack, where are you going?” I asked, my voice tight.
“I have to go. Go back inside,” he said flatly.
“Have you lost your mind? Do you know how much you’ve had to drink? Do you want to kill yourself?”
He said nothing.
“What’s happened, Jack? Tell me,” I pleaded.
“You don’t want to know.”
“And why shouldn’t I?” I pressed.
“Teri, please—just let me go. Get out,” he said, his tone sharp enough to startle me. I stepped out, standing motionless as he sped away, the gravel spitting from beneath his tyres.
When I went back inside, I sat down heavily and began to cry in silence. Pete and Mike noticed at once, hurrying to comfort me.
“Come on, I’ll play you something,” Pete said with forced cheer, strumming a dreadful tune with a voice to match. For a moment, he managed to make me laugh, but the sound broke into sobs again. Mike simply slipped an arm around my shoulders.
“Forget him—he’s a fool,” he said gently.
“I just don’t understand why he left. Why he left me here,” I choked out between tears. “I thought he’d changed. He was so kind to me all evening.”
An hour later, Pete’s phone rang.
“Well?…” he snapped into it.
“Don’t you think you’ve forgotten someone, you idiot?” he barked in return, muttered something under his breath, and hung up.
“Was that him?” I whispered. Silence filled the room.
“Yes. The idiot,” Pete said, waving it off.
That night Pete offered me his bed, insisting he and Mike would sleep on the living-room couch. They tended to me like a lost child. Mike came to check on me before I slept, wishing me goodnight. I drifted off to the sound of my own muffled sobs.
By morning, Mike said he’d walk me home. From Pete’s it was twenty minutes to the town centre. A faint mist still clung to the streets, and the town itself seemed fast asleep. Only the birds kept us company. I was cold to my bones, trembling; my eyes were swollen, but there were no more tears left to cry. I could speak to Mike as a true friend—he understood me better than anyone.
It was too early to return home, and I didn’t want to be alone. Mike, in no hurry, suggested the only place open: the church. Inside, a few parishioners were gathering for morning Mass. We sat together on the narrow steps, talking quietly. When the stillness of the church began to press on us, we wandered outside and found a place on the kerb opposite Roosters, continuing our talk. But I was too tired, as if drugged, without the strength for more words. Mike kissed me on the cheek in parting, and we went our separate ways.
copyright©2025
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