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She vanishes just as the year ends. Her resolve hardens with the ground, and there is no time to reconsider. To remain would be her covenant - to stay by his side until the end. December was different. Insulated by the infectious promise of the season, the wistfulness disguised by hope. But that sentiment does not burrow deeply enough to escape the coming frost, when the enchanting echo of goodwill fades and the armchairs by the fireplace fall silent once again. “Just a little longer.” She has told herself that for too long. She has cared for him - and she does care - but not enough to stay. Her sense of duty has been fulfilled, unlike the kindling dreams that she had had when they met. There had been more than a spark between them, at first - but those warm, blossom-scented winds that had brought them together now bit and nipped at her in the dark. “Do you have everything you need?” she asks him, though she knows she has been meticulous in readying him for the night ahead.He simply nods in reply. He doesn’t take his eyes off the television in the corner of the room, which rings with canned laughter and over-enthusiastic delivery.&nbsp;She smiles, in spite of it all, and smooths the covers gently, then squeezes his hand briefly before retreating down the hall. She knows he won’t - can’t - come looking. He will sleep soundly, once the medication takes hold, and the nurses will be there when he does finally wake. Perhaps the neighbours will be called, or friends enlisted as amateur sleuths to retrace her steps? But the roads she will take will be quiet, and the train station busy enough to remain inconspicuous, and she will soon be far beyond their reach. So she leaves a note by the bedside, making sure to check he is asleep, and slips out into the chill. Now, there are no twinkling fairy lights to permeate the monotonous night, but the moonlight marks her path down the lane.&nbsp; It is quiet but for the steady heartbeat of her purposeful steps, the ground crunching under her boots, and the soft thudding of the suitcase against her hip. “Your coffee, Miss,” the kiosk attendant smiles, placing the cup on the counter.“Thank you.” She pays with cash. There’s a heart in the foam, just like he had used to do when they first met. She adds sugar and stirs it into a shapeless swirl. By the time she hurries back along the platform, the train is approaching, brakes screeching in the cold.“Attention,” comes the call over the tannoy. “Please stand back from the platform edge.”She gives one final glance back over her shoulder before boarding, then the conductor’s whistle sounds and she is gone.&nbsp; It is many hours before she can finally lay her head to rest, in an unremarkable hotel by the bay. It is late, and it takes more than a few knocks on the door to prise the night manager from the comfort of his warm office. Grumbling, he sees her to the desk and checks her details. She doesn’t give her real name, of course, just to be safe. And she declines his reluctant offer of carrying her case to the room. Solitude is what she seeks, and she sits, for a while, on the edge of the well–used mattress, staring blankly out of the latticed window into the night. She spends those final hours tossing and turning, haunted by doubt and the gravity of her choice. She pictures him, calling for her, the soft jingle of the bell going unanswered. The growing confusion etched into his languid face as he reaches for the note, written in her distinctive hand, and reads that lone, heart-clutching word. Goodbye. There is no malice in her, but she does not absolve herself of its cruelty. He had believed, truly, that she would be by his side until the end. Looking back, she wishes for all the world that she had said something sooner. But then again, he had never asked. There had always been an assuredness, an expectation even - as if the intense romance of the early spring had bound them together irrevocably, and she was now obligated by an unspoken oath. “You are his rock,” they would tell her.“A saint.”“A wonderful person.”Perhaps she was some of those things, some of the time. But she could not allow herself to be defined by them. Nor could she accept that their bond was one rooted in love and devotion to each other. Would the early flames of their relationship have continued to burn so brightly? Or would they have fizzled out and their ashes scattered in the breeze? More pertinently, if the tables had been turned, would he be the saint by her bedside each night, her rock? She had often asked herself that over their time together.&nbsp; She can imagine it now - the gossip in the hallways, the outrage and contempt in which she will be held.&nbsp;“Fancy leaving with nought but a letter!”“And to think he was in that house all alone, all night.”“Anything could have happened to him!”“Broke his heart, it did, being abandoned like that.”None of them could understand, though. How could they? She had not asked for their platitudes. She was no Madame Bovary, bored, ungrateful, dissatisfied with her lot. This was a tragedy, yes - but not of her making.&nbsp; Yet as she steps out into the morning, the frost shimmers in the dawn, and the rising sun brings colour to her face. The harbour begins to come to life, with the clank of machinery and the pfft pfft of the steamer heralding the start of a new day. A new beginning.&nbsp; Any guilt dissipates like her breath in the cold air. She boards the boat, her warm smile met with delight by the captain. She takes her place in the lounge, luggage stowed, and relaxes into the seat. The early morning mist has begun to melt away and the calm waters stretch out towards the horizon. The rest of her life awaits.&nbsp;

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Let's Give It Up For January

David_Mann

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Let's Give It Up For January

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David Mann

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