What Becomes by A. L Kennedy

torn breath – I definitely think I may be crying – salt to salt.
    I know what I’m like.
    This need to be happy, to be solitary, to have someone of my own, to be brave, loved, hated, terrified, to make a family, to stay without one, to find the perfect pain.
    I know.
    This mess.
    This awful mess.
    I know.
    To be rid of it, bounce back and start again.
    With dusty shoes.
    They would be the best thing and the safest.
    Forget that I ever expected to save the day and never try again and put on my shoes and get running, get racing away.
    This is all I want now – dusty shoes.
    I’d be happy with that.
    CONFECTIONER’S GOLD
    They are both almost used to this, their tiredness. Two days now without sleeping, not even a nap since they got here.
    Which was on Friday – when they got here.
    It was definitely Friday and they have kept very firm about this, because in retrospect their movements are unlikely, unclear. For example, after the Friday they ran clean on through a Saturday that seemed to exist for only an hour or two – the length of a rain shower and a squabble, a slammed door – and then it became the unfamiliar Sunday which currently surrounds them, insistent and over-bright. This is obstinately Sunday and lunchtime and the pavement is unsteady as they walk. It dodges playfully underneath their feet and either shakes the man towards the woman, or else shakes them apart. They cannot decide which is more unbearable.
    The man swallows and feels his throat raw after so much talking, shouting, talking. His face, eyes, scalp, plus the whole of the area where he used to think – he is sure that he used to be able to think – the whole of his head feels only weak and blunted and slightly dry. He can’t tell if he’s still blinking, but isn’t sure if he’d be able to go without. Against the inside of his forehead, he can feel her voice – Elaine’s voice – repeating his name –
Tom
– it scuffs at the bone –
Tom
– and is apparently not just his name any more, but also an accusation.
    Tom is as certain as he can manage that he wants to sleep very soon and then wake up not Tom at all, not responsible, at the very least, not here. He would like to be surrendered, to admit defeat.
    While Tom wonders if they ought to stop for coffee and if even that might be impossible, Elaine is at the edge of enjoying how difficult it has become to lift one foot and set it forward, hoist the other, then the same again. She finds the process fascinating.
    This is strolling.
    This is us strolling.
    It also occurs to her that they ought to be hand in hand, herself and her man.
    Two lovers strolling together.
    Two relatively young people who have sex with each other strolling together.
    Two very close to middle-aged people who are scared of having sex with each other strolling together.
    Two people strolling.
    If you over-think things, then they get away from you.
    Anyway, she’s almost convinced they should be reaching out for what they know, holding on while the day swims and finding comfort in themselves. But they can’t do that. Not at the moment. They are no use.
    She hunches her fingers in against each other – as if she might be able to hold an idea and be satisfied with that. Then she realises this will look as if she’s clenching her fists – because she
is
clenching her fists – and she gives up, opens her palms to the cold again. She has no gloves because she’s lost them, dropped them, set them down in a stupid place and gone away. Another mistake.
    Tom is remembering the Blind School at the corner of their street, which is a completely unhelpful thing to do. The Blind School depresses him. And since he’s already depressed, the Blind School will depress him more, so he should ignore it, avoid it, but he can’t. He’s too weary for that kind of fight – for every kind of fight.
    They’re pathetic – the