SUNDAY MORNING

When I come back from the tobacconists with the morning paper Hopper is still asleep on the sofa. She looks like she might be cold. I leave her alone, the way she is, and go quietly into the kitchen. Over my still warm coffee I slowly flick through the pages of the newspaper, pretending to myself that I am really interested in what is going on in the world, when, perhaps, I really don’t care one way or the other whether hostages are freed, prisoners are executed, missing babies are found or cures are discovered for fatal diseases. Perhaps I really only care about myself, and perhaps I don’t really even care enough about that. At least that was what Hopper said to me last night, after I told her about last weekend. And before she swallowed all those aspirin.

 

The view from Hopper’s kitchen window is surprisingly pleasant at this time of a morning, when all is quiet and still, with a light fog slightly obscuring the more distant lemon trees. I’d never really paid much attention to it before, so the image that is usually in my mind is of the condensation on the inside of the glass, of the brightness of the striplight and the warmth of Hopper’s cooking, the two of us laughing and joking and talking about the so many things that we both enjoy, over the sound of loud music on an FM station. I’ve been listening to music now, for the past three hours, after Hopper finished vomiting, and I managed to get her into the living room and onto the sofa. But now it’s a different music, in a kitchen that is strangely new to me.

 

When Hopper wakes up she will be thirsty, and she will come here to the kitchen to drink some water. And then, if she remembers everything I said and she said last night, she will be angry, disappointed in herself for being so weak and cowardly, and perhaps a little confused about how we can go on from here.

 

“Are you still here?” she will say, and I will reply sarcastically.

“Don’t you think you’ve outstayed your welcome?” she will continue.

“That depends, I suppose.” I will reply.

And the conversation will involve this little ping-pong for a short while, until one of us gets tired of the game, or makes a mistake.

 

Hopper will accuse me, once again, of being useless. Of just living with her because I can’t afford to get a place of my own, and I will tell her that I have other alternatives, that I won’t end up sleeping on the street if she throws me out. That will make her have to change her line of attack for a while, as well as making her more angry. “Oh, yes...” she will say. “You can always go and stay with that bitch Pauline, can’t you?” I will answer that I don’t know, that I’ve never spoken to Pauline about the subject, but that I am sure that she won’t mind. This will make Hopper really angry. “See,” she will say, “if she puts up with your moods... See if she’ll cook and clean for you, and wash your clothes... See how long it lasts when she discovers what you’re really like.”

 

I will really frustrate her by not taking this seriously. I will just remain silent, perhaps looking at the newspaper. And then I will stand up and look out of the window at the garden. “I don’t ask you to wash my clothes for me.” I will say. “You do it, you said, because you love me.” Hopper will storm out of the kitchen, slamming the door on her way to the bathroom; I will wait for a while and then she will come back. During the pause I will wash the dish, cup and bowl from my breakfast. For some reason this will really niggle her.

 

“How can you be so callous? Washing dishes at a time like this!”

“I thought I’d just take a few hostages”, I will reply.

“And what the fuck is that supposed to mean, David?”

“It just means what I said.” And I will dry my hands on the towel hanging from a magnetic hook on the refrigerator door. “I was just testing to see if I could still do it.”

 

This will drive Hopper back into the bathroom, where she will take a shower, not noticing, or paying no attention to the fact that I have cleaned it. No one could imagine that an attempted suicide had taken place in there only a few hours earlier. And perhaps this will be the reason why Hopper won’t comment on how clean it is. Spotless.

 

Hopper never takes long showers, so she will be back to the kitchen again soon, and this time she will be in a position of strength. She knows that every time I see her wrapped in a short bath-towel with her wet hair swept back off her face I want to fuck her. Logically, she should feel vulnerable, but as it is her very vulnerability that excites me she will, instead, feel powerful in her desirability. I will have to work hard to overcome this disadvantage. I will have to get her off her guard again.

 

“So we won’t be going to the cinema later, I suppose?”

“Are you completely out of your tree, David?” she might say, if she’s still really angry. She likes the expression; she learnt it from me, and she knows how it irritates me when she uses my expressions.

“If I am, I didn’t shake it myself.”

She will find it hard to carry on this line of childish playing with metaphors, so she will come, finally, straight to the point.

 

While all this will have been going on there will have been a slight change in the atmosphere outside the house and over the garden wall. Sunday is usually a calm day in the village. Normally, when we are lying in bed, we hear the sounds of people walking down the lanes on their way to church, the pealing of the bells, and sometimes the honking of car horns when people from the city, like me, are driving through the narrow, winding streets. But that won’t happen this Sunday.

 

Today is market day, and, once a month, the village is the host to all manner of sounds unfamiliar to its daily, sleepy life. Trucks backing up and down, negotiating the tight bends; low humming sounds from generators powering hot-dog stands and refrigerated trailers. This used to start really early, even before the tobacconists opened, but the Church Council held a series of meetings to protest about this. They sent some representatives, including Hopper, off to the borough authorities and managed to convince someone important that the village should be a ‘noise free’ area until nine thirty a.m.. And that’s the way it’s been since then. It doesn’t really get too noisy until round about ten.

 

“So, it’s over?” she will conclude. I won’t say anything.

“You’re prepared to throw away everything we have just because of some ... stupid ... I don’t know what...?”

This approach will surprise me, so I will say what I always say when she surprises me. “You’re so predictable, Hopper. You know me better than that.”

 

But now I can hear noises coming from the living room. And the sound of Hopper’s footfalls as she pads her way to the kitchen. She comes in to find me reading the newspaper and pretending I am drinking coffee. She goes to the refrigerator and picks out an Evian, taking a long swig from the bottle. She wipes her mouth and turns to me.

 

“Oh, my head is splitting...”, she says, squeezing her forehead tightly between her thumb and index finger and closing her eyes to the light.

“Christ! What did I drink last night at the party? Jesus!”

“You didn’t really drink too much, I thought”, I say.

“I didn’t embarrass you, did I, David?”

“Not that I noticed”, I say. “You don’t embarrass me.” And I look her in the eyes and smile.

 

She puts her free hand on my shoulder, and I rub my cheek against it, pressing it hard against my face with my collar-bone. “I’m sorry, David”, she says. “I’m sorry.” It is nine thirty on a Sunday morning, it is strangely quiet outside, and Hopper is telling me that she is sorry.