My mother taught me to knit.
Back then, knitting was a necessity, not some artisan craft like it is today. She would get patterns from women's magazines and cheap wool from the market. She
... [+]
Eszter is a former teacher who lives by the windswept British seaside. By day, she teaches and cleans up after preschoolers. By night, she writes flash fiction and stories for children. "Petrichor" is in Short Circuit #15, Short Édition's quarterly review.
My shift is over. And not a minute too soon. I'm on the verge of tears. I'll have to be back in less than seven hours. My armpits are clammy, I'm feeling uncomfortable, and I just want to go home and sleep.
But he's watching me; waiting for me to join him at his favorite table. Sometimes he even smiles at me. I really should be firmer with him. For my own good. This whole situation is not healthy for me. I'm starting to lose weight again. I'm awake at night for hours on end. I don't know what I should do.
I gotta go, I mouth to him, tapping my watch. I take off my apron and hang it on the back of the door that connects the bar and our stuffy but surprisingly comfortable break room.
He grabs his coat and struggles to his feet.
Oh great, now he's going to walk me to the bus. Ask me too many questions. Try and touch my shoulder. Offer to carry my rucksack.
He comes to the bar, smiling like a fool. "How was your day?" He sounds genuine. Like he really cares. I want to laugh out loud, but I don't have the energy.
You should know, you've been here all day is what I want to say. But I don't say it. Instead, I shrug. "Fine. It was fine."
"Did you get good tips?"
Is he going to give me a tip? Surely not. "Some," I reply.
"Good." He opens the door for me as we leave. My boss is watching us from her office. She shakes her head, then goes back to her paperwork. She'll offer me advice later. She always does. I know she means well. I also know that she thinks that I'm weak, and that bothers me a lot because I don't want her or anyone else around here to think that about me.
The wind has picked up and it smells of rain.
"Petrichor," he says.
"What?"
"That's what they call this smell. It's going to rain soon." He smiles sadly. "You used to love it."
"I still do," I mutter, but I'm not sure he hears me. His eyes are fixed on the approaching storm clouds.
The bus stop is around the corner, outside the library. I'm tempted to go inside; I crave the peace and quiet it offers. I could doze in the corner, in one of those soft, high-backed chairs. But he would want to come inside with me, and I can't relax when he's around. Deep down I know he means well but . . . it's not enough.
"You look tired," he says.
"Yeah."
"Do you need money?"
Yes. I shake my head. "No."
"I can ride with you."
"Please. Don't."
"This town's not safe for a young girl like you."
"I'm thirty next year."
He stares at me, unsure what to say next. Is this the moment he finally decides that I'm not worth fighting for? That it would be easier to forget about me? Can't say I'd blame him . . . after all, I became an expert at pushing him away.
My bus is coming.
"Will you ever be able to forgive me?" he suddenly asks, looking at the ground, and I almost feel sorry for him.
I'm too tired to lie. "I don't know."
"I'll take that. It's not a definite no."
People make mistakes. I get that. But his betrayal changed my childhood for the worse. I was nine when he left us for Mum's stepsister. The whole family fell apart. He didn't seem to care. That selfish bastard got what he wanted, and we had to move into a poky flat because Mum couldn't afford the house on her own. Of course Mum refused to take his money. I would have, too.
Mum never got over it. The shame of it made her ill. And he didn't even have the guts to come to her funeral.
I take my ticket from my bag, his eyes watching my every move. Christ, this is getting harder by the day. I want to slap him, but I also want to hug him. I want him to hug me. He was a good dad . . . a really good dad. Before he fell in love with Annie. They're still together—got married a few years ago. I still don't know how I feel about that.
The bus door opens. "Bye, then," I say.
"I'll see you tonight."
I can't remember when I told him about my double shift. "Okay."
I find a seat and lean my head against the window.
A brief smile on his lips. That's the last thing I see before I fall asleep.