lifestyle
Short Story
BREAKING UP ALWAYS LEAVES A MARK
by P.A LATTER I noticed the sheet of paper on the kitchen table as soon as I walked in. In the early days of our relationship, my husband had left me messages all the time: from romantic cards with flowers on special occasions, to silly notes tucked into my handbag when I least expected it. In recent years, I was lucky if a text reminding me to pick up the milk was punctuated with an “X”. We still got on fine - at least, we never rowed - but we both had busy careers, and, over time, marriage can so easily become part of a routine, given as little thought as buying the milk. I picked the sheet up with a smile. Jane, I’ve written this as a note so you can’t interrupt me before I finish. [I never interrupt you, darling, I thought.] And I’d like you to know the whole of it, before you react. And then take some time to think about it before you reply. [Of course. I never make hasty decisions before thinking things through.] There isn’t anyone else. [Oh God, he’s having a mid-life crisis.] I’m not intending to buy a Harley-Davidson or attend a spiritual retreat so, before you say it, I’m not having a mid-life crisis. You have never been unreasonable. In fact, you’re the most rational person I know. [Thank you.] But perhaps that’s it: there’s no magic. I think we should get a divorce. No magic? What did he expect from a rational woman? And I didn’t think I could have foreseen this, even if I had the magical power of precognition. I celebrated the day I received the decree absolute, with my colleagues, at a city bar near the office. At least, that’s where we started. ‘It’s gone through very quickly and smoothly,’ Tarran, my best mate at work, said. ‘We agreed it was the sensible thing to do.’ ‘Do you want to be sensible, for the rest of your life?’
‘I want to get something to mark the occasion,’ I said. ‘It’s a bit late for retail therapy, dear heart.’ ‘Nonsense. Lots of shops still open around here.’ We found another pub and had more drinks. ‘Magic,’ I said, as we emerged back onto the street. ‘What’s that?’ Tarran said. I pointed, in a wobbly way, at the mystical symbols and depictions of the tarot covering the windows of the shop opposite. ‘He wanted magic and I didn’t have any. That’s it. I’ll buy some as my souvenir.’ I marched into the shop, which turned out to be a tattooist’s studio, followed by several of our group. ‘Go for it, Jane,’ someone behind me called out. A woman wesring a gypsy head scarf stepped out from behind a curtain. She took both my hands and locked her eyes with mine for what felt like a full minute, before dropping both her arms and her gaze abruptly. ‘I can show you…’ ‘The future, I suppose,’ I said. Although at that point, I was probably slurring the words. ‘Past and future are immaterial. I can show you who you are.’ I had no belief in magic, but I was obviously possessed by spirits that night: tequila and gin, mostly. That’s the only way I can account for leaving the studio with the design she sketched for me, newly inked onto my thigh. It wasn’t until the next day that I was fully conscious of my idiocy. I now had a tattoo - something I had always hated. However, if that was the only scar I bore from my divorce, it could have been a lot worse.
‘It’s not a question of wanting to be, it’s what I am,’ I said. We had more drinks. I later led a Conga line of sharp suits on a pub crawl headed towards Soho.
This story forms a prequel to the novel “And Some Have Witchcraft Thrust Upon Them.” by P. A. Latter, available in paperback and ebook from Amazon.
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44 Life in... BROMLEY July 2022
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