It had been raining. The pavement shone in the brilliant blackness and little onyx pools had accumulated in the shallow channels of the gutters and broken paving stones, refracting the orange light in strange shapes. Jenny lifted her chin and fixed her gaze directly ahead of her, giving the impression to the rest of the world that she was single-mindedly walking to the shop; that she was looking only ahead at her destination, and not keeping watch from the corners of her eyes. Every shadow in every hedge seemed to pull itself into the shapes of eyes, noses and mouths. Jenny had read about this phenomenon. About how human brains are instinctively programmed to see faces where there are none. It was part of the survival process of the human race; the ability to recognise another human face, to detect others on whom we so heavily depend – whether we need their help or, as Jenny currently felt, feared their intentions. So she tried to pay little attention to the gargoyles and the monsters that leered at her from the leaves of the hedges and the shadows of the doorways. She had only one thing on her mind – only one man on her mind – and none of these imaginary faces were his. There was no moon above the houses. No stars pricked the darkness. Clouds blanketed the sky and smothered the night with a heavy mask, blocking any light from the heavens.
Jenny slowed her pace as she saw a movement up ahead. It was difficult to make out exactly what it was. It was in the shadowy part of the pavement, at the exact point where two circles of light from two streetlamps failed to meet. A perfect ven diagram of black nothingness. Something low down in one of the front gardens shifted. She heard the rustling among the leaves before she saw the fox, but was still startled when it sprang out and trotted quickly along the pavement for a few feet before darting back into the next garden. The fox hadn’t even noticed her. Or if it had, it hadn’t cared. The fox was as indifferent to Jenny’s presence as an alcoholic is to the type of glass their drink is served in. It simply did not focus on anything other than itself and its own survival. Jenny envied that fox. She envied its simple life and its stupid little brain. Animals didn’t carry around the burden of guilt or betrayal. They were concerned only with the lower tiers of their hierarchy of needs. What was it? Food and shelter, safety. Anything higher than that simply wasn’t a concern for them. Why did humans have to evolve to be concerned with abstract needs like love and belonging; with the desire to achieve self-esteem, to seek out morality, to be creative? What purpose did any of that serve other than to instil a sense of failure in those who struggled to grasp the highest peaks? If there was a point to any of this, it had passed Jenny by. Yet she, like the rest of the collective masses she moved amongst, still strived for these things, with varying degrees of success.
Yes, Jenny had experienced her fair share of love and belonging. Until they had parted ways, she and her most recent boyfriend had shared the deepest relationship Jenny had ever been part of, deeper even than her friendships with Graeme or Theresa. He had understood her and she had never had to explain herself to him. He was the only person with whom she had ever come close to telling the whole truth about herself. She nearly did one night. About six months into their relationship. Wine had been drunk to excess by both of them and they were sitting on the rug of his living room floor, either side of the coffee table. He had just put out a cigarette in the ashtray and the smoke curled up between them, snaking in front of their faces like a fortune teller’s spirit guide. She looked at his face and saw hers reflected in his eyes. She saw herself as he saw her, and what she saw was wonderfully pure and simple. He loved her whole-heartedly. Unconditionally. They gazed at each other in the simple silence, unfettered by the need for small talk. They had done all the small talk they would ever need to do. If I can tell anyone, she thought, I can tell him. And in those few minutes of silence they shared, she contemplated telling him everything, toying with the idea at first, seeing where it would end up, letting it roll around her head until it found a place to settle. But it sat there uncomfortably. If she did tell him, would they ever be completely at ease with each other like this again? He might still love her, but he would never again see her as a pure and simple person. How could he? It would forever change their relationship. He might try to pretend that it was all fine. For months, even years, they might both convince themselves that nothing had changed. Go through the motions. Shit, they might even get married. And then what? Wait for the inevitable collapse of their fragile life when the strain to keep up such a façade became too much to maintain? Sit back and watch as the man she loved disintegrated in front of her, knowing that she was to blame? No. She couldn’t ruin his life as well. She loved him too much. And so she didn’t tell him. Not that night. Not any night. She kept herself pure and simple in his eyes, and he kept on loving her.
But it hadn’t lasted. Nothing that beautiful can stay.
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