Desafinado: Slightly Out of Tune - 14. ...Keep Breathing

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CHAPTER 14: ...KEEP BREATHING

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London, Late fall…

The rain dampened the skies, while traffic and the blaring honks of motorists rushing to work drowned out the streets. Inside Apartment 23 in Covent Garden in downtown London, I was at my friend’s apartment, thoroughly searching inside my wallet for a man’s number written on a scribbled note. Her manager, her boyfriend, and my very close childhood friend, Troy, gave me the number, hoping to set me up on a blind date that was bound to happen that very night. I had slept at her place with our usual weekend sleepovers and was already running late to work.

In front of her apartment, I was crossing the street, still busily rummaging through my knapsack for the scribbled-out page, when a motorist swept past me, hitting me with their side mirror that brushed my arm, slightly tapping it. Of course, I was in horror.

First, I was already running late, and the professor of Neural Chemistry was less than pleased whenever someone was late. I would have to take notes for an extra hour after class if that happened. Second, it was inappropriate and highly rude for some bellend of a biker to speed off like that. Third, the motorist gave a new watery design to my favourite trench coat as the roadside water splotched on my clothes when he zoomed past me. So, knowing I was in the right and he was in the wrong, I said to the prick, "Hey mate! What the bloody hell are you doing?"

He glanced at his side mirror, and without even looking at me, he said, "I’m sorry, I’m running late," as he ran off. The audacity! What a rude piece of work!

Lunchtime came, and I never found the scribbled note. I texted Troy that he needed to give me details of my date that night, but he never got back to me until dinner. Anyhow, there I was, lining up in a queue at a cafe near the university, rushing through the limited break time I’ve got. I was minding my own business, browsing through my notes in integral calculus on my phone, when a tall guy cut the line as my turn came. He was in his scrubs, looking dapper, which irritated me.

Dirty blonde. Fairly tall. With patches of grey on his beard and a very luscious, thick set of Patrick Swayze's hair, you could really dig your hands through it. He was confidence personified.

Also, he smelled great. So great that I recognised his scent. Clive Christian No. 1 Masculine Edition, as the name per se implies, smelled very masculine. A cologne filled with a herbaceous scent with base notes of thyme, a blend of bergamot and pink grapefruit, and topped off with musk and sandalwood. This cologne was meant to induce the ovaries to ovulate at the mere whiff of it. For £572.00, it better do as advertised and have women swooning at your feet. And it did for him. The smell was so outstanding that it grew rancid and malodorously intoxicating for those owning vajaeens, and the girl behind me started flirting when she flicked her hair in his direction. Several of them noticed him. Several of them threw their glances at the doctor, who swaggered and strutted in front of me. While I, on the other hand, was on a rampage. I said to the man, "Would you please fall back in line? You’re cutting the queue."

He gazed down and looked at me, then said to the Barista, "I’ll pay for whatever he’s having. Can you please give me one muffin—"

"—Hang on a minute there, mister. I don’t give a bloody crap if you’re planning on paying for everyone’s order. Don't skip the queue when you feel like it."

"I’m really sorry. But I have surgery in 15 minutes, and I really need my muffin and coffee to go. The child’s parents would really like to see their child after the surgery."

Emotional blackmail on the way; the other patrons heard him, and one of them said to me, "Just let the doctor have his coffee so he could save the child. It won’t hurt you."

Another one said, "Yeah. He needs to eat to prepare for the surgery."

And another one, then another one, until everyone started chiming in and making me the horrible person who'd kill the alleged imaginary child in question if he didn’t allow the operating surgeon to have his muffin and coffee. It was bollocks. Bollocks, I say! When that cheeky surgeon winked at me the moment he got his order, I knew right off the bat that he was a wanker.

That night ended with me heading off to my blind date. I was very skeptical about this night out, and I was only doing it for the sake of a favour. Troy told me he doesn’t want his friend to whittle and die as a bachelor. He phrased it as, "You’ll be doing him a favour, Albert," which I took in a general sense as a kind gesture to the poor bloke, or whoever he was.

I was in front of the restaurant, waiting for Troy to give me an update on which table I’d be sitting at and meeting up with my date, when I saw the motorbike that nearly killed me this morning being parked by the valet. The man who owned it hopped out of the bike and walked past me. I didn’t see his face as his back was turned. Troy still hasn’t texted me the whereabouts of my date, so I followed him.

Eavesdropping at the bar, I snuck a look at who the person might be. And when I took a gander twice, it was the same man who’d run over me this morning, and the same man at the coffee shop who’d cut the queue and had the entire cafe against me. So, I had to get over there and break his arm—perhaps not break his arm, but give him a piece of my mind for nearly killing me and for being a bloody knobhead.

I was so ready to do some talking as I sauntered over to his table, ready to slap some sense into him. But when I got there, my phone received a text message from Troy that said, "He’s in table 23." I gleamed at the table, and the sign said 23. There was a pit in my stomach. I wanted to leave, but I stood in front of him like I was about to take his order. He gazed at me up and down, smiling at me with an interested smirk, then said, "Are you Albert? Albert Mathersen?"

"And you’re my blind date?"

He stood up and gave me his hand. "Hi. I’m Daniel Kipford. Nice to meet you."

"But you can’t be my date. This has to be a mistake."

His eyes furrowed. "Why not?"

"Because you’re that bastard who nearly ran over me this morning."

"And I recognised you at the coffee shop. Sorry about that." A smile crept up to his mouth as he offered, "Let me make it up to you. Please. Have a seat."

But I wasn’t sitting. I wasn’t taking any word from this perfidious wanker with great hair who smelled amazing. I’m better than that. "No, I better go. This is a mistake."

He grabbed my hand as I lifted myself from the table, about to turn around and walk away. "Please. I’m sorry. Let me make it up to you. I don’t bite. Just let me explain."

He then said that he was called in to do surgery for a patient who needed a laparoscopic colon resection and that it was a matter of life and death for the patient. I call it bullshit. But his eyes seemed serious, like he did care about being there, doing his job, and performing that surgery.

"This meeting of ours might be kismet."

I said, "No, you’re just a dick." He laughed—with his laugh that could fill out an entire room—then he said to me, "I could be a dick later, after dinner. But first, do you mind if we eat first? I’m starving."

"You can order for yourself. I’m not staying."

"I’ll order for us. You know, I’ve been thinking about you the whole day."

"Creepy."

He snickered and said, "It’s not creepy if it’s true."

"How were you thinking of me then?"

"I just was. I had a feeling that we'd meet again. And here we are."

"Maybe that’s just the IBS talking. You sound full of shit right now, so you better check yourself."

He held my hand firmly and gazed into my eyes. "I was really thinking about you. It’s hard not to."

Pulling back my hand, I forced myself to glance elsewhere. He looked like he was ready to get a lute and sing his songs at me, serenading me about the wonderous affectations of dingalings and bullshit. Having no choice but to be there, I gave him all the silence he needed. And at some point, he kept his silence as he kept smiling at me, which was bothersome because he had a gorgeous smile. And as men with an enrapturing set of pearls go, they’re usually playboys or someone bound to break your heart.

Minutes later, he tried to start the conversation with all his talk of work with the hospital. But I wasn’t keen on responding. Just a subtle nod, and that’s it. This was going to be another one in the books, as a horrible date was forgotten and swept under the rug.

However, something changed. The thing that got me interested was when he spilled the pasta on his shirt, followed by his hand hitting the server on his crotch, forcing the man to yelp like a kitten as he dropped the tray of chicken and rice on the neighbouring table. I laughed so hard that there was no choice but to talk to him.

"Shit! I’m usually not like this," he said while going to the server to help.

The server glowered at him. "Sit down, sir. You’ve done enough harm."

I was wiping my eyes, chuckling like a nutter, and said, "That has got to be the worst way to get a date interested in you."

He shrugged with an open palm. "I'll try. At least now you’re talking to me." He glanced at me and grinned, then gave out his hand for a sincere handshake. "Can we restart? Hi. I’m Daniel Kipford. I’m a general surgeon at Chelsea and Westminster Hospital. I just turned 35. I’m told I’m a deadringer for a young Harrison Ford but with better hair. I’ve watched all three movies of The Godfather. I love a good bundt cake. I have a little sister together with my mum. And I like you."

"Running a bit fast, aren’t we?"

"I’ll be turning 40 in 5 years. In gay years, I’d be considered dead. I’m rushing forward to make things matter. I like you. There’s no harm in being upfront or saying what you truly feel."

I shook his hand and answered back, "Hello there. I’m Albert Mathersen. I’m about to finish my master's in clinical psychology at UCL. I’m about to turn 25 this coming September. Erm—I’m an art teacher every weekend at Cobham International School. I’m a black belter in krav maga. I’ve been teaching piano and violin recently to get some extra cash on the side. I sometimes help out at a friend’s daycare school teaching toddlers their ABC’s. What else? Oh, I do volunteer work at the soup kitchen in Brixton. I also volunteer at King’s College Hospital helping patients by providing emotional assurance and practical support."

"Do you love doing volunteer work?"

"I do. It makes me feel like I belong somewhere. And seeing the patient’s face light up as you help them through their day, or putting food on the plate of someone down on their luck is... it makes my heart full just thinking about it."

Daniel squeezed my hand and said, "Wow. It’s official. I’m a shitty person." He let go and nodded. "Your life makes me look like I’m a complete shit. Troy said you’re special. Now I know why?"

"What do you mean?"

He crossed his arms and said, "That you’ve never had a boyfriend. He said that if I break your heart, he’ll have me whacked and have my body floating up in the river Thames. That’s why I wondered why he sounded so protective of you. Now I understand. You’re the bloody mother Theresa."

"How dare he! I’ve had boyfriends before—I think. If you consider the three months of dating I did with this guy... aw, yeah, I broke up with that one before we became official. How about, no. But Greg—well, no, not him. But Steven and I did, oh crap," I said, tilting my head, "did I ghost that one? Shit. I’m a horrible person."

"You’re not a horrible person. You just love to run away. That’s what Troy said."

"Run away from whom?"

He propped an arm on the table and turned up the corner of his cheek. "From your destiny. Let’s see if you run away this time."

"My apologies, but I don’t believe in that," I said, drinking a glass of wine.

"If I don’t get your number by the end of our date, we’re not meant to be."

"That’s stupid."

He took it as a challenge and said, "We’ll see."

We talked for the rest of the evening. And boy, did we talk. We talked so much that we didn’t notice that the restaurant was closing. And we didn’t stop talking. We talked while sitting on a bench at a nearby park. We talked until 5 AM when the sun was up. I lived near the restaurant, and he walked me home. While we were in front of my apartment, he said, "You’re forgetting something?"

"What?"

"Your number." He gave me his hand while he fingered a pen from inside my bag, as he leaned down with his face close enough to my lips that I could smell his breath. I was grinning like a silly child at the way he intensely stared at me without saying a word. Once he got the pen, he dropped it on my hand and said, "Go ahead. Write it down. You’re not getting away from me easily. I’ll hunt you down if I have to."

I wrote my number on his palm, then I bit my lips and said, Goodbye, Daniel."

He grabbed my arm. "Hang on a moment, before we part, are you sure you have everything with you? You’re not forgetful, are you? Do you have your keys?" And I kissed him. I kissed him well, and he reciprocated when he held my head up closer to his face as I finally got a taste of his lips. I’ve been wanting to kiss him since I first saw him at the coffee shop. I was running my fingers down his velvety, lush hair while my tongue was lashing out inside his mouth when I felt a slight tug between my legs, which meant that I was definitely into him. "Ok," he said, coming up for air. "That was phenomenal, and I’m not complaining. But, er, why did you kiss me?"

"Didn’t you ask for it? You said, can I have a kiss?"

He chuckled, then went straight out to laugh at me. "I said, do you have your keys? Not, can I have a kiss."

I ran up the stairs. "Ok. Forget I did that. That was embarrassing. Crap. Bye. Daniel."

He swooped up the stairs and was behind me. He spun me around and kissed me again. "You started it, and I could never forget what you taste now." He gazed at my lips and said, "Get inside before I hold you hostage back at my place. Go on."

I closed the door, leaned on the wall, and felt like I was on cloud nine. Then he shouted at the foot of the stairs to my apartment, Destiny, Albert. It’s destiny. I’ve now confirmed that we’re destined to be together. I’ll chase you across the ends of the earth if you try to run away. But you’re never running away from me, do you hear that? Never!"

For three days, I kept thinking about him. I could only cherish the moments of our first meeting. It was lovely and magical. And I absolutely had a great time. That was the case until our second date, when I slept at his place and he held me hostage for the entire weekend, where all we did was binge-watch The Walking Dead and sleep in our pyjamas. I was whiplashed. I was slapped hard by the reality that there was this man who was infatuated with me and who never held back his feelings. And in the first few weeks that led up to our first meeting, a month later, he told me he loved me and that he had never felt like this with someone else. I knew it would be fast. But I already loved him before he said the three-letter word. I just wanted him to say it first.

Six months later, he asked me to move in. Two years later, he asked me to marry him.

Early spring…

I was about to meet him for dinner at this Italian restaurant we dine at every Friday. I was wearing my usual training outfit—a pair of baggy sweatshirts and jogging pants, as I had just come from my self-defence class. Knowing he’d clearly be in his suit and tie after work, I’d usually stop by our apartment in Mayfair for a quick shower and a change. As I was heading to our apartment, I got a text message saying that there was an emergency at La Giorno and that I needed to come and give him his emergency rescue bag. The text message said, "Someone collapsed. I need my bag. Please bring it over. ASAP. Rushing to our apartment to get the bag and then running to the restaurant like a lunatic, I busted down the door and said, "I’ve got it!"

He was behind me when he knelt on the ground and offered his proposal. "Living with you for two years… I never thought I’d be this happy until I tasted your cooking and found out you have no sense of taste. I’ve loved you since the day I laid my eyes on you. It’s true. That day when I nearly ran you over with my bike. That moment, you confronted me at the coffee shop like you were about to kick my ass was very sexy. And the hilarious way you giggled at me when I smacked our server’s balls that sent the tray of food flying. Everyday seems to be an adventure with you. And as with every adventure goes, there are days when we argue and fight. There are nights spent sleeping on the couch. Nights spent not talking, but still talking to each other the following day. And some nights eating alone, while you wait for me after a 48-hour shift, still looking excited to see my ugly face every single time. I know life would be impossible without you. And life will never be the same without you, either. So what choice do I have but to be with you forever. So if you could make this very old 38-year-old man, a very happy man… Albert Reginald Mathersen, please, will you marry me?"

I was silent and did not know what to say to him except, "You’re proposing to me while I’m wearing a sweatshirt and jogging pants? Really, Daniel, you’d do this to me?"

"Yes luv, I’m doing this to you now."

"But how could you?"

Smiling and ecstatic as I was when I’d said it, without saying directly what I meant to say, he knew my answer was yes, so he kissed me and held me right after I’d said my piece. And then a surprise came when our friends and family were behind us to celebrate our engagement. Everyone was dressed to the nines, while I was wearing baggy clothes and sweaty pants, and Daniel was in his suit and tie. But then again, that’s what I loved about our relationship. We were simply opposites—he looked like a gentleman while I was dressed like a thug.

One morning, in the beautiful meadows of Daniel’s country house in Bath, we had our wedding. It was small, quaint, and charming. We opted to have a small ceremony since I only had a few relatives and his family was large. So we met in the middle and had a small wedding with a big reception. And it was lovely. A year later, we had our first child.

Middle of summer…

A year after we got married, we decided to immediately start our family. Daniel was 39, while I was turning 29 myself. He wanted to see our grandkids, and that was possible if we started having kids before he turned 40. Finding a surrogate was expensive, frustrating, and meticulous. It took us all our energy and months of hopeful searching to find an Asian surrogate from an agency—someone of my descent. A half-Asian baby would at least look more convincing to us as a family, regardless of my features, which look more Caucasian. A child with my heritage would be the preferred choice, so we opted for a Filipina surrogate.

Emily was kind and patient. Her patience was proven and tested when I had an outburst upon finding out that my sperm count was too low and that I had trouble creating life. So she convinced me that the only way was for Daniel to donate his sperm. At first, Daniel disliked the idea, which started a huge fight.

"Why won’t you give me your child?" I asked. He and I were in the heat of an argument as we were going to bed.

"I want to have your child, as we’ve talked about luv," said Daniel. "I wanted yours, not mine."

"But I can’t. The doctors said I’m sterile. You’re being selfish, and you know that."

"You’re not sterile. You’re just having difficulty, that’s all." He wanted to hug me, like how our arguments ended with me surrounded by all of his warmth. But I needed to marinate and not be distracted by his wilful charms. So, I said, "Please don’t. I love you. But you will not hug your way out of this. I need to go to bed. Goodnight."

We didn’t talk for a week. Until one Saturday afternoon, I was supposed to pick up his nephew at the preschool. Uncle Damien came to the rescue. His mother had an emergency meeting at work and called me. I know she wouldn’t have called her older brother, given that he’s flooded with surgeries at the hospital. As I waited for little Ella to come out, I looked at the group of kids saying goodbye to their teacher, and I was filled with many ideas, like how Daniel and I would be very good fathers, waiting for our little girl or boy in preschool. Just before the bell rang, Daniel was standing beside me.

"This is her way for us to patch things out together," he said. "Don’t be mad at her."

"Your sister’s a meddlesome brat. I love her for that, though."

He looked inside the glass window right through the door and saw the children lining up to exit the room. "I’m scared to be a father. You know how dad left Mum, Lara, and me. What if I’m not up for it? What if I bail out?"

I reached over and hung my arms over his shoulder. "Huggybear, you’re far from that person you think who’ll abandon us. I’ll have you tied to the bed in case you run. You’re the kindest and most patient person I know. We both know you love children. Unless, of course, our child turned out to be the child of Chucky. Maybe, that’s something to reconsider."

He put his arms on my hips and held me closer. "What if he or she turned out to be one of the children of the corn?"

"That’d be a shame. This whole town would be slaughtered if our kid started sporting beach blonde bangs and a bowl cut. That would be totally horrendous," I said.

I told him that seeing his mini-me running around the house was better than seeing the grown-up version. And I told him that no matter what happens, I’ll be here. We kissed afterwards and proceeded with the insemination.

11 months in, our surrogate was very pregnant. She was at Thom’s Bakery having a strudel when she speed dialled me. "I’m having the baby now."

Her water just broke. I was on my way to a conference when I told her to calm down. I told Daniel about us having the baby, and he rushed there to pick up Emily. I could freeze the moment in my head when Daniel was pacing in the waiting room, patiently waiting for any news.

"Do you think something’s wrong? Something’s wrong, isn’t it?" Daniel said, like the worrywart that he was.

"Stop saying such things. You’re making me anxious."

"But what if something’s wrong and I could help there? What if—"

"—you’re not an obstetrician, huggybear; you’re a general surgeon for god’s sake." I went behind him and lent him my arms. "Stop panicking, will you? I believe that everything’s going to be alright. I can feel it."

"You always make me calm. What would I do without you?"

I smiled and said, "I’ll be your future therapist someday. Why don't you pay me by the hour starting now?"

A few hours later, we had a beautiful 8 lbs. baby girl named Eloise Mathersen-Kipford. She turned out to be the light of our lives and a complete daddy’s girl. Everywhere Daniel went, he’d bring her there. She was our spoiled little angel. Those four months were our happiest. We were in utter bliss. And I couldn’t be happier.

The rain was heavy that day. I didn’t go to work that Wednesday because I was doing my research report at home and I wanted to spend time with Eloise. The babysitter was going out on a date or something, so my little girl and her papa had all the time in the world for each other.

I gave her a bath in the morning. Fed her lunch with some pumpkin puree and cauliflower mash. She watched some reruns of Blues Clues on the telly, despite not really being able to understand them. I felt like I was watching it for myself. Then she slept in the afternoon while I did some work. Little did I know that it would be the worst day of my life. Her fever was spiking, and by 6:48 PM, I called Daniel to let her know that something was wrong with her.

"Huggybear, Eloise’s fever won’t go down."

The line was cutting static. "Sorry… what?"

I rushed down the apartment stairs like my life depended on it. I hailed a cab and took her to St. Matthews Children's Hospital, a hospital in the vicinity of Daniel’s work. An hour later, he got there just in time to see me at my worst.

"You’ve got my baby with all these fucking tubes stuck in her throat, and you won’t tell me what’s wrong with her? I want to see her now!" I screamed as Daniel pulled me back. "I want to be with my baby!"

"Luv—luv, calm down. They’re doing the best they can." They pulled him to the side, and I’ll never forget his face. That face when he held his mouth and cried in silence was forever etched in my memory as one of the darkest days of our lives. I was beside him now, holding him down.

18 sleepless hours later, Eloise Mathersen-Kipford succumbed to bacterial meningitis. Our baby is gone. And so did the light in our lives. We changed as people after that.

There’s nothing that trauma won’t strip away from you. It leaves you bare-bones with all the bolts and screws untangled, all loose on the floor, waiting for you to slip and fall. And we fell. We fell hard. Then we fell apart. I blamed myself for the death of our baby girl. And as for him, he blamed me for it.

Late winter…

After three months of sleeping apart, eating together, and going to work like worker drones without speaking to each other, our marriage was bound to be over. I avoided him like the plague, for whenever he’d look at me, there was an invisible finger pointing at me that said, You killed my baby. I knew I deserved it.

I eventually got close to a colleague of mine. Brad Ainsley was his name. He was four years my senior and a professor at Cambridge. I had just accepted a fellowship for a clinical psychology programme, which meant that I had to live within the campus five days a week and be far from Daniel, who lived at our apartment down in Mayfair.

Brad was exciting. He had fresh ideas and interesting takes on certain psychological approaches, and there was an obvious spark between us. The attraction was there. But I never took it upon myself to see where it was going. I consider Brad a distraction from the pain of recently losing a child. But he didn’t see it that way. Brad wanted more.

One evening, we were at my apartment near the campus, and he was getting frisky with the way he rubbed my shoulders and the way he whispered close to my ears. I admit, the thought of sleeping with him certainly crossed my mind. He was young and fit, blessed with a pretty face. Then, as soon as the idea came to my mind to sleep with Brad, thoughts of Daniel fucking me senselessly invaded my private space, like how he would touch me before we got married. Suddenly, I was so turned on by the idea of Daniel going inside me that I allowed an unmarried man to kiss my neck and caress me. Cheating usually starts that way, and the moment I allowed Brad to take a peek inside the boundary, that one margin never to be crossed, I was the one cheating.

Daniel, whom I’d forgotten was visiting that weekend, saw Brad behind me kissing my neck. And at the moment where I pushed Brad and said, "Please... Stop. I’m married," Daniel and I had our eye to eye. We glanced at each other. I knew he still loved me. And I never stopped thinking that he did.

He dragged Brad out of the apartment and beat him so silly that I thought he’d kill him. He was punching and kicking the poor man while I had to drag Brad out of the apartment by myself. I didn’t know what exactly happened, but we ended up fucking that night. It was the angriest sex we’ve had, and it was the best. I was on top of Daniel, riding him on the couch, when he said, "Do you want to go to couple’s therapy?"

I nodded and said, "Yes." It was hard getting fucked and thinking of anything rational other than feeling your husband’s cock going in and out of you.

"Ok." He carried me and got me into a corner. "Face the wall because you’ve been a terrible boy that needs a lesson." And then he fucked me again, only this time, he was making love to his husband.

Daniel always knew how to push my buttons. He always made cum—every single time. I’m not trivialising sex as a joke, but I don’t remember a time when he fucked me and I didn’t cum. It must be from the slight curve of his dick or the way he would jerk my cock and kiss my neck while pounding me like a whore. Or the smell he gave off, which was a very strong scent of oak and pine. It was very woody and straight-up masculine, and all I wanted to do was lick him all over. Something about him was the perfect concoction of sex that made me lust after him. And if I’m being honest, he wasn’t that big. But who needs it if every time his cock went inside me, I’d be cumming in buckets and swearing the name of the Lord in ten languages.

I came twice that night. And even at about 5 AM, as we tried to go for the third round, none of us said a word except the moans and groans of pleasure brought on by the fixation that whatever was wrong with our marriage, sex was at our most intimate to feel connected. And connect we did—three times.

We were in bed, post-coitus, and he was fingering me and playing with his own cum inside my asshole when he whispered in my ear, "I’m ok with opening our marriage."

"Really? Are you cool with it?

"Yeah. If it makes you happy."

"What made you think I want an open marriage, Daniel?" I never called him by his first name. He definitely knew what was up.

"You had another guy in here. What else do you want me to think?"

I turned around and slowly sat on his face. He was slobbering on my cock when I asked, "Do you plan on sharing me with anyone else?"

"Yep," he said. I hopped out of bed, very pissed, and was heading to the bathroom to clean myself up when he grabbed me and tossed me into bed. He held my face and said, "I’m kidding. Absofucknglutely not. You’re mine and mine alone."

"Don’t ask me that question again. Now kiss me."

"Ok," he said, as our mouths tangled and we hungrily sought each other’s taste.

We slept five minutes later and slept for another 12 hours. The thing is, sex was exhausting. We weren’t spring chickens anymore. I phoned in for a sick day the next morning, and the day after that. We didn’t leave that apartment for four days. All we did was order takeout, sleep, have sex, and eat. That was definitely better than a boring second honeymoon.

… Fall.

After several months of couple’s therapy, we were sleeping again on the same bed and having sex on the same bed, or out of it. The first time we visited our daughter’s gravesite, I cried. I was happy that the two of us were there. And I was happy that after everything, we were still together. I would sometimes visit Eloise whenever I felt like talking to someone. It was cathartic and enlightening. And although I still haven’t forgiven myself, Daniel forgave me. The hate he felt towards me, he’d learned, was misplaced, as we both discovered in therapy that regardless of what had happened, neither of us could’ve done anything. None of us were to blame.

One evening, Daniel had just finished doing an appendectomy when he got out of the operating room.

"Hey mate, are you game tonight for some poker?" his fellow surgeon asked.

"Nah. I'm having dinner with my husband," Daniel said as he tossed the gloves in the glove bin.

"Still on a mend, ey’? Nah. You’re just trying to butter Albert up, me reckon."

"Hey, don’t shit on my moves. It's not my fault Trixie thinks you’ve lost your game."

"Boo," said the surgeon as he exited the room, smiling.

Then, Daniel felt dizzy. And as the room got smaller and smaller, he collapsed.

The following week, he and I were at a doctor’s appointment. I didn’t know what we were doing in Manchester, but he swore he trusted this colleague and friend of his. He was fidgeting with his feet, and I had to hold it so he’d calm down. The doctor gazed at us and brazenly said to him, "It’s not looking good, Daniel." He handed him a calling card to one of the best oncologists in the whole of London, and I just looked at Daniel like I was asking him, "What’s up?" still not sinking into what had happened. He glanced back at me and said, "Wanna grab lunch?"

I was still at a loss with what was going on until we got home, and he said, "I can’t believe I’d have to stop my surgeries for this. Can’t I do chemo and keep doing surgeries at the same time?"

And as it sank in that my husband had cancer, I immediately hugged him as we both shed tears for the lives that were about to change—our lives that will never be the same. He had stage 1 brain cancer. That was the oops. That was the blip that we both missed.

During his first week of chemo, he was still perky and alive, joking around, smiling at me, and staying positive throughout this journey of his. But by the first month, he was pretty much over it. He was vomiting in buckets, and all I could do was hold it for him and pray to God that whatever he’s going through, I get to keep half his pain to experience it later. That was the agreement with my maker. And I went through with his pain, not just in the sense of him losing weight and feeling like his insides were slowly dying. But something different.

There was a time when I did my confessional at work. I went inside an empty toilet during my break, continuously flushed the toilet, and bawled silently so no one would hear me. I’d rather they think I was taking crap than discover I was praying to a mystical man in the sky who granted wishes to those desperate for one. As I was face to face with my maker in the solitude of that four-cornered wall, I asked, Why him? Why my Daniel?

I remember sitting in the park with Lara. Daniel had already lost all of his wonderful hair from the chemo, and he was helping Ella stay still in the bouncy chairs. We glanced at the two of them while she and I talked.

"Did you expect your brother to have cancer?"

"Yeah. I expected that. He always loved smelling the fumes when we were children," said Lara, laughing at my question. "You think he predicted having this?"

"No," I said, clarifying my answer with a smile. "I always assumed I’d turn out to be sick a decade from now, and then he'd turn mad and become like a mad scientist trying to find a cure for his sick husband."

"You’re sick in the head; you know that."

I chuckled. "Maybe. But I can’t lose him, you know."

I was about to break down and cry as she pulled me in. "Don’t cry. He’s looking at you. Hurry up and smile." I smiled at Daniel and Ella, waving at us from the see-saw. "I know it’s hard, but you have to be tough for him. I know you were—and you’ve been tough all this time." She quickly wiped her eyes and said, "But you have to be tougher. The toughest you’ve been, 'cause he’s going to need you. You can’t lose it, you hear me? You just can’t. Otherwise, he won’t have someone to fall down if in case he needs it. You hear me?"

I nodded, and as Daniel approached us, he asked, "What are you two snivelling about? Are you crying about me?"

Lara said, "No. We’re crying at how poor your sense of fashion has become. A tweed jacket? Really, Daniel?"

"What? It’s cold. It’s comfy." He sat beside me and kissed my cheek. "What say you, husband? Want to get out of here and have lunch with the little tyke?"

"You’re a horrible babysitter; do you know that?" I said, pointing at Ella heading off to the street. He started running to chase her, and as he caught her, he tossed her in the air, and they both giggled. I turned to face Lara and said, "I can’t imagine life without Daniel. I just can’t."

Months later, one afternoon, I was covering Daniel’s eyes for a surprise. It was a tad difficult to hold that man’s eyes down since he was far taller. He had to slightly kneel to accommodate my spirited adventures. I told him, "Keep your eyes closed. Ok."

"I am keeping it shut, luv. I swear."

And then, "SURPRISE!"

A large banner with a sign that said, "Happy Remission!" was plastered in front of us, along with friends and family cheering him on. He was touched as he wiped the tears from his eyes, first hugging his mother, then my parents, then his sister, and then he held little Ella in his arms and swiped me in for a hug. "You’re going to pay later. You know I hate surprises," he whispered. It was a very, very good day for all of us. He even got to cut a cake from his best friend Mike, which said, "Happy Wanker’s Remission Day." Troy and his new flavour of the month gave him a weekend spa certificate. I asked my best friend, "So you expect my husband to go to a Spa by himself? So I’m just a fiction of your imagination, am I?"

Troy said, "There were supposed to be two tickets, but I think I used the other one last week. But I swear, on my nan’s life, that one’s good. I’ll pay for your entrance, Reg. My word is mint."

"Entrance?" I asked. "Are we going to an amusement park?"

Thanks, Troy," said Daniel. "I’ve always wanted to try one of those dodgy spas with a happy ending."

"Alright then. You’re not going there! No happy ending for you, mister." Everyone laughed. Daniel got to enjoy his day with friends and family.

As the laughter and the cheering eventually faded and everyone had left our apartment, he was sitting at the dining table, still exhausted and frail. I was doing the clean-up and was putting away the leftover roast chicken in the fridge when he said, "Do you know how much I love you?" I didn’t mind it at first, because he’s always said that he loves me mostly when he felt like saying it. But when he said it this time, he really said it. "It's never enough when you’re around. You make me feel like I belong here. Like there’s nowhere else I’d choose to be with than to spend it with you. It feels like my heart gets twisted when you’re not here, every bone and tendon misaligned, every part of me gets swallowed whole. I can’t talk. I can’t speak. I can’t think. And breathing is a task that becomes a chore. You make me whole. And that half of me becomes you."

I turned around and walked over to him. I sat on his lap and whispered, "You’re never going to get something as poetic as that from me. All I can offer to you is my body as a sacrifice. So rest up, mister. We have a lot of catching up to do." I kissed his cheek and said, "I’m so happy to have you back, huggybear. I love you."

Three months later, his hair had grown back, and he was already gaining some weight. We already had a slight kerfuffle over which colour the walls of our previous baby room, now turned into a study room, should be.

"Huggybear, I think a bit of cerulean would set this right," I said, pointing at the wall.

"That colour is too specific, luv, don’t you think?" Daniel said, looking through his L-shaped hands as though he were looking at a portrait. "What if we add blue?"

"Blue is cerulean—a different shade of it."

"Cerulian schmoolian. Who cares? I’ll get another shade of blue at Leylands. Do you want anything else? I might drop by at Waitrose to get the chicken."

"What chicken?"

"I’m cooking chicken cacciatore," he said, frowning at my forgetfulness. "You forgot the pasta, didn’t you?"

"Yeah," I said, squirming at the thought of forgetting to buy groceries again. "But I promised to wash the dishes tonight. I swear, I’ll do it."

I was hugging him, and he was avoiding my kiss until he smooched my lips and said, "Fine. You’ll be the kitchen help again... tonight."

He was closing the door when he said, "Ok. I love you. Laters, my love."

"Alright. I love you too. And don’t forget to bring an umbrella. It might rain."

"I won’t." He showed me picking up the umbrella in the corner as he closed the door.

Minutes later, I was beside the window calling Lara for tomorrow’s Sunday brunch when, below the apartment, a loud screeching was heard and droves of people encircled the scene. I looked out the window and saw a blue umbrella on the side of the street. I knew in my heart that it was Daniel. I hurried downstairs to see it with my own eyes.

Daniel lurched over to the side of the road with a bloodied nose. I swept past the crowd and held him in my arms, shouting his name like it was the only thing that mattered. And as I held him, he smiled. And then he was gone. Just like that. He was gone. There was no crying. Tears weren’t enough to explain how I’d felt. There was just this difficulty in breathing that, if given a choice, I would’ve stopped breathing myself, for living had become too much to bear.

I tried calling for him, but the air was sucked out of me, and I was unable to say his name for the last time. He needed to wake up. To tell me he’d been hanging around the frozen section and that he was unable to choose either chicken or beef. I had to check my phone to see if he had called in to say that he was stuck in traffic. He needed to be there to tell me he was alright. I held his face and called out his name, but no one answered. I kissed his lips, but he wouldn’t wake up. And then someone dragged me out of there. It was Lara. She stared into my face, and I told her, "Daniel’s gone to Leylands. He’ll be back." And as the tears fell, it was relentless. My tears wouldn’t stop as I kept saying, "He’ll be back. He’ll be back, right?" She held me tight and said, "Yes, sweetheart. Daniel’s gone to the shop, and he’ll be back."

When the ambulance arrived on the scene, they pronounced Daniel dead. He was no more. And so did I. We both died that morning.

If pain was meant to convey feelings of emotional or physical suffering, this was more than that. My soul had left my body. All that was strained was a mark—an indelible mark on where it used to be. Daniel was right. I had become half of him. And that part of him in me died. Getting it back might be something I'll never learn.

I thought that after surviving cancer and the loss of a child, you were supposed to enjoy that part of life where the two of you die together and get old. I never expected that life would hit me where it hurts the most. Losing him ended my life. And I don’t want to get myself fixed. In this brokenness, I get to see and feel him. And without it, I feel nothing. I am nothing.

---

Strewn on my lap was Albert’s head. I was caressing his head as he shared all the details I needed to hear. We were lying in bed when he told me his story. I wiped my eyes and said, "I’m no Daniel. I can’t be him. And I’m not enough to be like him. But maybe there’s a slight chance that tomorrow, you’d think less of him—even for a little if you let me."

He swivelled his head to face me as he looked up and said, "I would love that." Hidden beneath his smile, there was a pain not a person in this world could fathom.

With my head bobbed down, gazing at him, I forced my enthusiasm and said, "Really? You’d give me a chance?"

"I have to start somewhere." He pulled himself up, held my eyes, swiped the liquid, and said, "No more crying tonight, alright? I didn’t share my story with you to be bawling like an idiot. Come now, let’s go to bed." He hopped over the right side of the bed with his back turned against me and said, "Spoon me."

"But," I said, hesitating. I wasn’t sure if Daniel spooned him into bed. I was being paranoid that Daniel did this or Daniel did that, which I’d thought I would change differently. After his story, I didn’t realise the power his dead husband had over me. He loomed over my shoulder like a shadow I’d befriended unintentionally. Then, he said some words that would completely alter the course of our relationship.

"Worship me."

"Sorry, what?" I said.

"Worship me. I want you to worship me. Adore me. Devote yourself to me. Complete me." I gazed at his back, stunned. "I want you to fill up this space in me, this void that nothing seems to fill."

"But what if..."

"Try Damien," he said loudly. "Try if you can. Try if you must. And if you fail, do it again, and again, and again... and again, until I am suffocated by your love and all I can think of is you. Then maybe this heart might let you in." And then, a sudden stream of tears and sobs overwhelmed him as he lay in bed. He didn’t move. He couldn’t. The pain was too much. All he said were the words, "Please. Help me... breathe. I don’t know how. I’d forgotten how to. Please... someone," as his final call for mercy for a life raft to swim by while he was drowning.

I rushed to get into bed as my arms reached over and gave him all that I had while he struggled to get air into his chest, suffocating him as he cried and poured his heart out. I hugged him tightly; my hands clasped around the fingers he placed near his heart. I repeated the words, "I’m here, baby. Shh. It’ll be alright. I promise. Shhh. You’re safe now," while my fingers tendered and brushed his hair, soothing him of this open wound that won’t stop bleeding.

And as he was falling asleep, he whispered, "From now on, we’re together. Do you understand that?"

"Yes."

"Tell me you understand everything."

"I’ll never stop until you’re whole. I promise."

Never in my life has anyone asked me something this big, this important, and so crucial that all I could think of at that moment were the ways he could open up to me, hoping someday he would open the doors to let me in.

That was the first time I fell asleep with our hands intertwined and my arms around him, inhaling the back of his neck as this scent of sandalwood, dried-up sweat, and vetiver would completely take over and enslave me. From then on, everywhere I went, I’d remember that smell. This was the night I knew Albert had become my home.

---