Shielding

“It says they’ve received it.” I hear the plaintive bleat I’ve not manage to muzzle. It’s answered with a grunt from the bedroom, where my lover is undressing.

Lover. Can you still call someone that when every interaction they have with you seems drenched in contempt?

Another notification brings me away from trying to remember when he last complimented me. Asides from performatively, in the presence of friends and family. The witnesses, gathered there today, gone tomorrow.

My stomach drops.

“Wait, it says they’ve cancelled it.”

A gargling sound, eventually evolving into: “How many times do I have to say it? I can’t hear you when you’re in another room!”

I clear my throat, readying to join him on his platform. Half wishing a train might run me down as I cross the threshold. Is that the sort of ‘manifesting’ thing that all the bullet journal people bang on about?

“It’s says they’ve cancelled it. The order, I mean,” I needlessly add. Holding up my phone. A little shield.

“Why the f*ck have they done that?”

“I have no idea.” I scroll. “It doesn’t say. Just says that they’ve refunded me.”

He stifles a scream. I get it – I’m hungry too. He got caught in traffic. Even if I’d ‘used some initiative’ and got something ready for us to eat, it would’ve been cold by the time he got in.

“Do I seriously need to do everything? Can I just have one thing?”

“I’ll order something else,” I offer quickly, reopening the delivery app. Cartoonish icons of pizzas and drumsticks twirl under my fingertips. If only I could order a sedative. Buy one, get one free.

Never mind. I’ll just eat my feelings. At some point. Hopefully before midnight.

I pray they’ve refunded me like they say they have done. That this isn’t some scam. I’ve nearly fallen for some recently. They’re getting more devious. And I’m becoming less able to tell what’s real and what isn’t.

“What was the name of that Japanese place you liked before?” I say lightly, hoping to trigger some happy memories.

“It was Mr…no, wait, Garden something?” I watch as he turns a shade of Remembrance Poppy.

“Oh, I don’t know, I have enough to think about! Running my own business, managing a hundred people, never getting any help.”

Apart from the staff of doe-eyed creatures fresh out of college he employs. Maybe he could employ people with wits instead of tits. Or both, I add graciously.

“Don’t just stand there off in one of your trances again. I need you to fix this!”

I turn my back and walk away, daring my feet to keep going, take me down the street, into the paths of neighbours. Hello, I’m a waif and stray, please adopt me. I punch in an order with an identikit restaurant, with just a small blip/mini mental breakdown on whether to get the mayo dip, or garlic mayo dip, or go with both. I’ll be called wasteful. But I’ll take the hit.

“It’s done. Order placed.” These are words I manage to push through the lump in my throat and funnel through a hole in my head I’ve formed into the crescent of a smile.

“Finally,” he says. “I’m going to go shower.”

I sink onto the sofa. I follow the driver on the map. Great – a bicycle icon. Not the car I’d hoped for. Yeah sure, very eco-friendly but not very hungry-frustrated-boyfriend-friendly.

I numb myself with a mobile game for a minute. When I return to check on Rob’s progress on his journey, it shows him going the complete opposite direction. My empty stomach plunges again. I’ll have a prolapse if this carries on. Or a hernia, I’m not fussed. I’d just be grateful for the hospital bed.

“What are you doing, Rob?” I whisper. “Is it a side quest? Are you a drug runner?”

Use the box below to message your courier.

I wipe my clammy hands on my jeans.

Can I have what you’re having? I type out, for kicks, then delete.

The delivery time, which had gone from 30 minutes to 15, changes to 20. Why.

I close my eyes, deepen my breaths. Tell myself it isn’t the end of the world. But my spike in adrenaline is a damn lance through my chest at the moment. Guess I’ll have to learn to breathe around it.

I type into the little box again.

Please, can you hurry up? I wince. Demands go against everything I’ve been taught – of living to serve others, never asking for anything for myself. But I’m online! I don’t have to present that side of myself. Boosted, I carry on. I will tip you more, in cash, so your employers don’t take a cut. The thing is, the longer the delivery time, the more chance my boyfriend will actually murder me and I’d really like to try the limited edition chocolate chilli wings before I die

I didn’t hear him get out of the shower. He’s standing in the doorway, wet hair, white towel around the waist. He just needs a soft drink and I’ve got an advertising dream come to life.

But in reality, I’ve got a slight problem on my hands. The startling appearance made me accidentally press send. I was only writing it as a therapeutic exercise. My therapist suggested as such, because professional decorum forbids her from screaming “LEAVE HIM!” (it doesn’t stop me searching her eyes for it though, until the sustained eye contact gets too much).

“How much longer?” he asks, while I’m frantically looking for a button that doesn’t exist, so I can recall the message.

“Umm,” I begin.

“It’s a simple question, with a simple answer,” he says in the tone of a mother whose trying to ascertain if her little angel has brushed his teeth so she can get to bed already and reminisce with photo memories of her previous child-free life on a screen. I have an overwhelming urge to laugh.

“Ten minutes.”

“Then why can I hear him outside?”

Oh god. Crashing into my brain like a landslide, I figure out what had happened. The route thing on the app must have glitched, frozen somehow. I practically fly off the sofa.

“I’ll get it,” I cry, hoping the panic is mistaken for excitement. Chocolate chilli coated excitement!

He holds his hands up in faux submission (and so I know how dramatic I’m being).

I open the door to a man in a helmet. Having given up on my train manifesting, I pretend it’s an astronaut come to whisk me away.

Rob loudly announces the order. Then bends lower to ask me:

“I saw your message, you okay?”

The genuine concern makes my eyes smart. I suppress it. I’m always too emotional, I’m told.

I open my mouth to reply, and what comes out is:

“Your tip! Wait here, I’ll just go get my bag.” I take the paper bag full of lukewarm food, dash down the hallway and give it to him. I grab my handbag, explaining I forgot the tip. He can’t make a cutting reply as his mouth is full of mozzarella sticks but I get an eye-roll runner up prize.

On my way back to Rob, I snatch my coat off the hook in the doorway too.

This delivery guy is going to regret answering this call. I think, or say. I’m not sure. I don’t know what’s real anymore.