I stood in the kitchen after she left, staring at the crusts on the plate like they were about to say something profound. Three bits of toast. Hers had butter and honey. Mine were burnt. Again.
The silence after a weekend like that hits different. It wasn’t the flat kind of silence—because I don’t live in a flat. It’s an old semi with weird damp patches in the hallway and a garden that hasn’t been mowed since April. But the silence still had that weird, echoey quality, like the house knew something had shifted. Or maybe I was just hungry again.
I thought I’d feel lighter, or maybe relieved—like when someone leaves and you can finally spread out again or switch back to your own brand of weird. But no. The house felt… off. Like I’d accidentally opened a new chapter in a book I wasn’t sure I was reading.
Carmen only stayed two nights. One night turned into two because we’d had too much wine and then the rain came. Then it didn’t stop. So we ate a lot of toast and watched Spanish true crime with bad dubbing, and she sang along to the theme tune. Badly. It was perfect in the way you don’t dare say out loud in case you jinx it.
Now it was Monday, and the kitchen still smelled vaguely of her shampoo. My inbox was full of deadlines, and my phone buzzed with WhatsApp messages from people acting like we were all still pretending to care about digital transformation.
I poured more coffee. Opened the fridge. Stared at half a lemon and some grated cheese in a bag that might’ve expired in 2023. Slammed it shut.
I actually opened a spreadsheet. Sat down. Looked at it. Closed it. Then I put on my coat and walked to the park instead. Not the nice park by the church—the weird one with too many pigeons, three broken benches, and the guy who always smells like lighter fluid and regret.
Sat on a bench damp from last night’s rain, I tried to remember the last time I felt this quietly terrified. Maybe when I signed the mortgage in 2014. Or that time I thought I’d replied-all to a group email slagging off my boss. Or when I realised, last night, that I was happy.
That’s the thing that got me, I think. Happiness. It crept up on me while she was singing that theme tune for the third time and trying to fold her socks in half before bed. I didn’t see it coming. Didn’t brace. Just let it crash in.
And then this morning, as she slung her bag over her shoulder and kissed me goodbye by the front door, she asked if I fancied going to Granada next weekend. Said it like it was a normal question. Not a big deal.
And I said yes.
Immediately.
Like a Labrador being offered a sausage. No thinking. No coolness. Just, yes.
And now I can’t stop wondering what she meant. Was it a casual trip? A test? A step? And why do I care so much?
There’s a part of me that wants to text her. Not to say anything clever—just something like, “Bring the good socks for Granada.” Or, “Do you still want me to come?” Or maybe just, “I liked you here.”
Also, I need to admit something. After that weekend binge of poorly dubbed Spanish crime shows, I realised I still barely understand the language. Carmen had to explain half the plot, and I nodded like I knew what was going on. I don’t. So I looked up some immersion options and found this place that actually looks promising for proper, in-person Spanish learning—Spanish courses Barcelona. If I’m going to survive another weekend with Carmen’s TV tastes, I need to know at least what the murder weapon is.
But I won’t. Not yet. Instead, I’ll go home. I’ll mow the bloody lawn. I’ll eat another piece of toast, probably burnt. And maybe I’ll rewatch that true crime episode alone, just to hear her voice in my head again singing that ridiculous intro.