His Mouth Promises Nothing by Caroline Grimshaw
There he is, clutching red roses – the kind that sag rather sadly. The kind that seem to suffocate behind the plastic wrapping. The cellophane creases catch February’s pale sunlight and sparkle for a moment.
There she is, watching him through her tear-smeared spectacles. She’s the kind of girl whose burning ambitions seem to suffocate behind the tedium of her life choices. She falls too easily. Then, love – an electric shock – burns a hole in her heart. Her heart is a clenched fist now. She’s wound up and ready to pounce on that love-hate-love boy.
This is his pattern.
Marry me, he gasps. His baby face so sugary. His mouth promises the earth.
Get out, he snaps. His face lined by a history of savage ex-lovers and fatherless children. His mouth promises nothing.
Here he comes. He touches her face, with his soft-skinned fingertips, his Jean Paul Gaultier cologne weaving a path around her hope and tightening the noose about her neck. This is it … she knows it. The proposal moment … the tying of a knot so strong that their unity will be secure forever.
Hands shaking, he tosses the bouquet to her and smiles. No happy endings for her this time. Catching, then clutching, the roses, her lungs squeeze the breath out of her. She stumbles. He has already turned away.
Nestled in his grim Hackney flat, boxed in by crates of dog-eared vinyl records, she wonders why she gave him five years of her life. Bitten nails strike the strings of his beloved Fender Telecaster. Now he is screaming along to Brit Pop’s daft lyrics.
He is a little dull – pedantic even. Do not touch his books – brew coffee for eight and a half minutes only – never wear double denim on a weekday – down pints of ale until your legs fail every Friday. His LPs are arranged in alphabetical order, and she is not allowed to look at them.
Is he better than nothing when you are thirty-six? Probably not.
Now, he is preoccupied with his nightly sleep tight chat with his children. They are far away, by the sea with their mother – who hates her.
Yes, my baby, yes, he’s saying.
Love you – of course, he’s desperate.
Don’t hang up, he’s begging.
The ex has put a hex on her hopes of a happy ending. She always does.
He does not notice her retreat. Her absence to him is less than nothing. What’s less than nothing, she wonders. She’s left with this conundrum as she pulls his front door closed behind her.
Now, she’s perched on a park bench, holding his gift and it has started to rain.
He loves me, he loves me not, she whispers, plucking red rose petals, one at a time, and tossing them into the icy air. She’s stronger than he thinks, she thinks. Her breathed out breath is an icy mass, blown skywards through her lip-sticked mouth. For a moment she feels feisty. For a moment she is free.
Caroline Grimshaw has worked as a graphic designer and writer for decades, inventing concepts for books and then creating them. These are mainly children’s non-fiction books, imbued with a magical quality, for example the Invisible Journey series follows the path of sunbeams, energy and communication processes, presenting complicated concepts visually and simply. Following on from art directing Paul McCartney’s World Tour Programmes, Caroline was asked to project direct and edit Paul’s book: Each One Believing. Here, she discovered the power of dialogue and experimented with structure and typography. Caroline’s dissertation for her MA in Digital Media Culture investigated sound media, memory and trauma. She became intrigued by memory-making and longed to find a way to capture her own memories in storytelling. She signed up for a Creative Writing Masters and discovered the power of fiction. Caroline was awarded a Distinction for her Masters, after turning to memoir and weaving together memories of her own life. Caroline currently shares her weekly flash fiction stories on her substack –
https://carolinegrimshaw.substack.com/
Image courtesy of Caroline Grimshaw
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