He walks along the street alone in the cool evening air and the comb nestled in his jacket’s right breast pocket snags beneath the crook of his arm, pressing against his chest. He lets out a gasp that hisses through his clenched jaw but the low rumbles of conversation flooding the street from opened bar doors muffle its sound along with the keys and ring that jangle in his pocket. Twenty-something year old men in creased suits lean awkwardly against the walls outside as they try to entertain half-interested twenty-something year old women. The smoke from their cigarettes disappear like their breath into the fading light and someone, a colleague probably, calls out to him, their words slurred from watered-down beer, but he just keeps on walking.  

            Those cancerous clouds of grey smoke bloomed from the mouths of smokers too when he first met her in that seedy, sticky-floored bar. He clutched at a half-finished pint with one hand and gripped onto the bar with the other but his head still managed to sway slightly as if his neck were elastic. He saw her coming. He knew what she wanted. The dimmed lights hid the first few strands of grey that crept along her temple but her eyes still glimmered. She slowly made her way towards him. He could feel and hear her quick, eager breaths and how he wished he had seen her slip the ring into her purse before she whispered in his ear.

            The small wad of twenty-pound notes in his wallet makes it bulge slightly and he runs his thumb over the top edges of each note, counting them out again in a faint whisper whilst the heavy scent of his after-shave flares the nostrils of passers by. Normally he finds solace in these half-empty streets. The rambling bars are behind him now. The chilled wind usually pinches his skin and makes him shiver, makes him remember how it feels to be alive. But tonight his whole body, apart from his chest, feels numb. He stares into the empty square of opaque plastic in his wallet. Most people keep passport-sized photos of their children in the same space and he sees how the gap-filled grins illuminate their parents’ eyes with joy.  

            He told his colleagues how they were saving together for a holiday and then a car. The lies wrapped around his heart and squeezed it like a stress ball. Nights became sleepless as he stared at her desert-like womb and dark clouds of insomnia crept slowly into his mind. Sometimes, after bad mornings, he sipped stale whisky from lunch until lights out and shirt un-tucked, breath stinking, he stumbled and staggered home. She would always be waiting on the bottom stair, her jaw always taut, waiting to pick another problem, waiting to start another fight.   

            On the street a swarm of tourists surround him as he waits for the lights to change. They point animatedly at a map that one of them holds out and another repeatedly circles the picture of one of the city’s famous landmarks. He points them in the same direction from where they came from – the opposite direction of where they want to go. The glaring flares of headlamps blur past him as he rocks his weight on the edge of the low curb and fierce pockets of wind burst into his face with every passing car. He can’t believe that he may have once considered taking one more step just because of her.

            He won’t go back to collect his suitcase. She would push him down the stairs again. His clothes are probably still strewn like confetti across the downstairs floor and she may well be still raging through the empty house like tree-toppling winds whilst half-expecting him to return with his chin fixed to his chest and a bunch of sorry-looking flowers in one hand. But he’s never going back to her. He’s had more than enough. The thought of her almost makes him wince and feel the cold jolt of adrenaline as it darts through his veins.    

            There’s a lull in the storm of traffic and he strolls across, the ring and keys jangle louder in his pocket. He opens the glass door of the restaurant and lets the gentleman take his jacket, making sure as he does so that the gentleman doesn’t brush against his bruised and aching ribs. His eyes dance in their sockets as they search around the restaurant until they find your hand that waves like a flag in the air. His heart swells and starts thudding loudly against his chest as he makes his way over to where you sit at the table. He pulls back the chair, sits down and tangles his fingers with yours before they clasp tightly together.            

             I’ve got some news for you, he says with a squeeze of your hand.

            Me too, you reply and glance down towards your swelling womb.