He stopped loving Amelia when she stopped loving him.
Tit for tat, just like that.
Was it that simple?
Sure, but no less real.
Cassidy got lazy, Amelia got sad.
She developed an edge, became less understanding, less forgiving. She withdrew all understanding and would now chastise him for his feckless nature, his prosaic platitudes. “Christ Pete, this isn’t art, this is life.”
And then, thirteen months ago, with the boys in deep sleep, she had prepared a meal to celebrate the ninth anniversary of that first meeting, a date that they valued more than their wedding anniversary for some reason. The Last Supper: a beautifully simple dish of linguine with Parmesan, pine nuts, butter and sage. Purple sage of such intense flavour that Cassidy had asked Amelia where it was from.
“It’s from a friend…” she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “A friend from work. Bill grows it himself in this tiny garden in Bayswater...” he lost her eye for a beat, and he knew.
Tiny garden.
Purple sage.
Bayswater Bill.
The Last Supper.
For Cassidy that was their moment of separation.
He couldn’t forgive her.
She had diminished him.
He demonized her.
Once he’d been a dragon slayer, now the dragon was burning his French fucking toast… For a while and “for the sake of the kids” they expertly avoided each other in the small basement apartment; their lives disconnected.
And then they just… separated.
So, life no was longer a travelogue of ‘picture postcard charms’ then.
Cassidy didn’t dream of 747s.
That was travel.
Cassidy wanted escape.
He’d got the urge for going.
Amelia beat him to it.
Time was a concertina; the essence of a failed marriage in the time it took Daniel to tie the laces of his brother’s boots. From “hello” to “goodbye”; vital edges to the arc of their love, a rise and fall that had brought him meandering back up this hill exactly nine years and thirteen months later. Back to the source, back to that bright moment, back to this park bench.
Archie fidgeted on Cassidy’s shoulders sending his glasses flying. Daniel picked them up and carefully wiped the lenses on his shorts before dutifully handing them back to his father.
“So, will Mayfair Mac still go to heaven, Dad?
Archie squeezed his knees together and Cassidy’s ears sang.
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