The Last Supper

Food was life. The very essence of how to live well. Joy and gratitude in the necessary. Revelling in the feedback that the senses provided as a meal was cooked. The taste of it centring a person in the moment. No past darkness. No future anxiety. She had known this, but had been derailed in a gentle, clandestine manner. The tracks had been removed and the engine that drove her had quietly slowed and drifted and become worthless and redundant as it strayed from its place in the world.

She was lost. She knew this now. Could have done with knowing it well before. The knowledge of her loss wounded her further. There was no utility to it. No use in anything anymore.

There was no going back. Only forward. She had no idea where she was or where she could go. All there was left to her was to put one foot in front of the other and trust that one day she would come across a landmark that would speak to her of a worthwhile destination.

Her life was a betrayal. At night, she lay in bed and her mind screamed a lullaby that would not allow her exhausted body to sleep. When at last she fell into a fitful state of unconsciousness an inner alarm alerted her to the witching hour. At three a.m. she became all the more aware of her woes and worries. The siren call of anxiety drowned out any peace she may have had. The grind of the unoiled wheel of her grey existence made her forget the life she’d had lived before this.

Pain was all she had. It weighed her down so that each step in her life was laboured. Reality was a dark dream. She tried to run from it but she could not. Anchored in a nightmare inflicted upon her for sins committed by others and gifted to her in an act of glib spite.

In the mornings she was more tired than she had ever been. The new day sneered at her. Goading and bullying her before her eyes began to function coherently. Getting out of bed was a sad act of resignation. There was nothing for her beyond the confines of her duvet. The only reason she ventured forth was that neither was there anything for her upon a mattress grown far too big to contain her and her loneliness.

Her listless movements in her former home shamed her. This was not her. None of it was her. She no longer belonged and in not belonging she no longer knew herself. Even going through the motions eluded her. Breakfast was a novelty. It was as much as she could do to make herself a mug of tea. As the kettle boiled she stared out of the window. The dirt on the window pane painted the bars of her imprisonment. The kettle’s element did her crying for her. Pouring the water into the mug was almost beyond the limits of her. Too late she spotted the omission of the tea bag. This simple ritual broken and ruined. She had to return to the kitchen to add the forgotten milk. Saw the use by date. Hoped the expiration of that date would not pain her further.

Working at her laptop was marshmallow surreal. There was no point to her labours other than to count the clock down to the illusion of better days. There was a time when her labours had been a part of the fabric of her meaning. Fabric that had unravelled and fallen uselessly away from her clumsy grasp..

She felt used up before her day began, but somehow she kept going. When it was needed she would find a brave face to put on. Greetings were fielded valiantly. When asked how she was, she provided the obligatory affirmation. No one ever expected anything else. Holding back the floodgates was how her life was now. She knew she’d drown were she to step aside and allow the waters of her grief overwhelm her.

At lunchtime she toasted a piece of bread and smothered it with butter. An indulgence that lubricated the dried bread and helped her swallow it down. On a good day, she would wash it down with a cup of tea. On a less than good day, there would be a cup of water. Often there was nothing. Nothing was the constant theme of her existence.

Taking a break was important. She knew this. So she sat at the dining table and scrolled through her phone. Seeking respite from the drudgery of a life she did not choose. Flicking from app to app all she found was more nothing and a growing certainty that this was all there was; the uncertainty of loss. No one was coming to save her. Not even the ever watchful algorithm behind the greedy screen.

Checking her emails in the same way she checked her post, all she saw was junk and the occasional bill. Then, as she closed that app, a red circle appeared notifying her of a late arrival. This might just be her lucky day. An undeserved gift of life. Not a tall, dark and handsome stranger. She’d tried that tonic and found she was allergic to it. Discovered a gradual intolerance that had almost killed her in the end. An end that was the beginning of this. A phase in her life that she had no name for, and in not naming it she had no power over it either.

Reopening the email app she saw the familiar name of her divorce solicitors and experienced the same assault to her nervous system she had every time she saw a message from them. Betrayal had a long tail. She doubted she would ever see the end of that scaly tail. The email was short and there was a detached warmth to it. The professionals she had instructed got that she had embarked upon this process against her will. That she hadn’t signed up for this in a quaint village church eight years ago. This was something to endure and get through. And this was the news she had supposedly been waiting for. Attached was the Final Order. The replacement for her Marriage Certificate. She was to keep it safe. Proof of her newfound status; unmarried.

Her marriage was now officially dead.

The shorthand description for how she felt was numb. She knew this not to be the case. It hurt. The constancy of the hurt had become far too familiar to her. She had to breath through it. Carried it with her everywhere. In the shower she wished she could wash it away, but it was so ingrained in her. Her broken heart pumped it around her body.

The afternoon grazed its way against her tortured body and whispered acid thoughts of her lack of worth to her as she typed away at her laptop in response to emails and worked on a project that was important to people she knew. Those people existed beyond the screen of her computer. She saw the images of some of them during meetings and wondered how the walls around them felt. Hoped they weren’t closing in and crushing her workmates. Hoped the lives beyond hers were filled with beautiful emotions that constantly eluded her.

That evening she resolved to do something different. There was no celebrating the death of her hopes and dreams. That would have been sacrilegious. But so too would be to leave this day unmarked by her presence. Before embarking upon her chosen ritual she made her way upstairs and showered for the second time that day. Showered like she meant it. Removing the dirt of the day and renewing herself. As she got dressed, she tried not to cast her mind back to the last time she’d made an effort with her appearance. The times she had previously worn this dress. She tried and she failed. Her errant thoughts supplied her with the last time and the times before that. The context and the company. There was an echo of a foreign feeling that almost undid her and this night’s endeavour. She averted her eyes from the mirror and fled her bedroom.

In the kitchen she slowly busied herself. There was no rush. She’d not been on the clock for the best part of two years. The radio sat untouched. Her disharmony left her a stranger to music. Another one time lover now estranged and distancing itself from her with every passing day.

Cooking for one was a miserable endeavour and so she introduced artifice to the proceedings. Tonight she would cook for two. Leftovers had always been one of her favourite meals. Usually better than the first sitting. Besides, the convenience of a second helping might encourage her to eat another evening meal, even if her appetite continued to protest.

She found that she was enjoying cooking. This was an activity that grounded her whilst at the same time elevating her. As the aromas of the food entered her body she was reminded of the world beyond these four walls. Memories of better days came to visit and she dared hope that her life may not be so bad after all.

As she sat at the dining table she looked across at the opposite place setting. There on the table was the empty plate she’d placed there, bordered by knife and fork. No spoon. She wasn’t ready for a dessert. Not yet anyway. Offset from the plate was an empty wine glass. She deliberately filled hers with a cheap but drinkable red. Raising it she nodded at the empty glass and made a silent toast. Forced herself to drink. Then she cried for the first time since he walked out on her. Cried her heart out and made room for the next chapter of her life.

It seems like she has cried for an age, but as she cuts into her steak and raises it to her mouth it is still warm and the taste is exquisite. That first morsel sates a new-found hunger. As she tucks into her meal she glances at the absence that has haunted her for far too long and finds that she is smiling. Later, she will smash that plate to smithereens and delight in the sound of the breaking glass as she obliterates it. Then she will open the fridge and find there is nothing for dessert other than a block of cheese. The cheese will do. It will do nicely.

Tomorrow she will shop for more food. More food than she’s purchased in years. In her shopping bags will sit several cheeses and a rich chocolate dessert that she will sample in her car. Hungry at last. Eager to live again and make up for lost time. Afterall, food is life. She’ll remember this as she digs into that indulgent chocolate dessert with the charm and clumsiness of the child she once was. Delighting in the ridiculousness of her life. Laughing at her ability to make of it what she will. Creating a mess that is hers and hers alone. A sweet mess that she cleans in her own time. Licking her fingers and at last celebrating her newfound freedom in the simplest of ways. No one to judge this spontaneous act. No one to hurt her for being her. The dessert is glorious for the way she consumes it. The best. Now she takes a look in the mirror and she likes what she sees. Leaves the chocolate smear on her cheek in a glorious act of rebellion. Starting the way she means to go on.