Just One Last Dance

Family?

I didn't know you had a family. You told me your mom and dad had passed away, that you had no brothers or sisters, but there's names here. Quite a few names. I open the folder that says Mom and Dad, and there's emails to you. From your mom. The last one is yesterday. I sit there, my heart fluttering, breaking out into a pale sweat, and my hands are shaking as I open another, and another. They go back and back and back.

I work my way through those folders, one by one, and there's a whole other life here. Two brothers. A sister. Cousins, Uncles. Aunts. Friends I've never heard of, and I've never actually met any of your friends, have I? I've never thought about that. I've been so happy spending that time with you, just you and me, and it's not like I have many friends here. Not close friends, anyhow.

What's going on? I don't know, except I'm starting to think I do, and I'm feeling sick.

I click on your Google Drive, and there's folders there, too. Utilities. I look, and there's bills. Gas. Hydro. Water. I open one, and the account is in two names. Yours, and a woman's name. There's an address. It's local, Five years, there are five years worth of statements, and there must be a mistake. There must be. I look and I look and I look, folder after folder, and there's so much. I want to tell myself its lies. It's all lies. It can't be true. It isn't true.

But I know it is. There's images to. Photos. Lots of them. This is all real, and what am I? What are you and I?

That woman, I read through your emails to her, and hers to you. You email to her the way you email to me, you tell her you love her, and I look at the most recent email. From last night. You tell her you'll be back for the weekend, that works gone well, that you love her, and I feel sick. What is this? What have you been doing? I read, and I read, my classes forgotten. I look at my calendar, and when you're telling her you're away for work, you're with me.

When you're tell me you're away for conferences, and work trips, you're with her. It all matches, and I go back and back and back. She's your wife. You're married, and what does that make me? You've been living with me. At least, I thought you were living with me. But now I think I understand why you're away most weekends. Why you're here, with me, Monday night to Friday morning. You've been lying to me, and you must be lying to her, too, and I look at those wedding photos.

I know you don't have a Facebook page, and now I think I know why. It's not because you don't like social media, is it? I search for her, your wife, and it's easy. I find her right away, and there you are, with her. She's not very security conscious, all her friends are visible. Her posts are all public, the photo album of your wedding is there for anyone to look at, and I do look. The last posts are from the weekend. You and her, with friends, out for dinner, and she's announcing that she's pregnant.

There's even photos of a baby shower she just had, a few weeks ago. Those dreams of you and me? Of marriage? Of babies? Shattered into splintered glass, and she's beautiful. Older than I am, and she's not Chinese. She's blonde, like you. She's tall, not short, and she's not slender like me, but she's beautiful, and you two look so happy. She's smiling at you, and her wedding dress is gorgeous, the sort of wedding dress I imagined for me to wear for our wedding, and the way she's looking at you, I can see she loves you.

You're looking at her, and I know that look. It's the way you look at me, and my heart breaks. Is that look a lie? Do you still look at her, like that? Like you look at me? I search for my name, and I find one doc. It's a letter. It's to me, and I read it. I read it again and again, and I can't believe what it says. I don't want to believe what it says. It's a goodbye letter, and you're telling me you've gone. You've left me. It's not working for you, and it's a draft.

I can't see anymore, I can barely read for the tears, and I know everything here is true.

I'm not sure what to do, but I can't stay logged in to your account all day. I copy everything. All the contents of your google drive. All your emails. Everything. It doesn't take long, and then I logoff, and I have no idea what to do.

None.

My mobile rings, and I know it's you. I look, my heart pounding, tears in my eyes, because I know, and I'm sure that whatever you say, you'll be lying to me. I answer anyhow.

"Hi," I say, and you know something's wrong.

"Are you okay?" you ask.

"I'm not feeling well," I say, my voice catching, and there's so many questions. So many things to ask you. But I'm scared you might answer, and I don't want to know. Not now. I need time to think, although I'm not sure what to think about. "I took the day off."

"Stay warm," you say. "And drink some lemon and honey. Take some extra Vitamin C."

"Okay," I say,

"I love you," you say. "I'll call you tonight."

"Love you," I say, and I do, but inside, I'm cold. I'm shivering. I'm terrified, because you're saying one thing, and I'm terrified that the reality is different. I don't want it to be different. I don't want to know the truth, but I can't lie to myself. I know.

But I can lie to you. Now. "I'll see you when you get back. Call me tonight?"

"I will," you say, and I wonder what reason you're going to give for not being here next weekend. It'll be something else. Something I can believe, I know that, because up until I saw those emails, I believed you. Conferences. Sales trips. Contracts, and you told me your company had overseas contracts, and you spent a lot of time travelling, working on client sites, attending conferences. Public speaking.

I have friends in companies that do that kind of work. I believed you. Until I read those emails.

Late afternoon, I take my car, and I drive to the address on those utility bills. It's an inner city suburb, one of the older ones with those huge old Victorian houses, and the address is one of those. It doesn't take me long to get there. Two story, bay windows, there's a garage that's new; the house looks like it's been restored. New roof, new windows, the garden is landscaped.

Expensive.

We share the rent for our apartment, since you moved in with me. I look at your house, and half the rent for my apartment must be spending money for you. For me, it's a struggle every month, and I was so grateful that you paid half. I park my car across the road, and I wait.

Six. Six thirty. My mobile rings, and it's you.

"I'm at the airport, Estelle," you say. "My flight just got in. I'm catching the shuttle to the hotel, I called to tell you I love you."

"I love you," I say. "Call me when you're at the hotel, I want to know you're safe."

"I'll try," he says. "But if it's too late, I'll text you, okay... hey, here's my ride. I love you. Bye now..."

"I love you," I say, watching the garage door open, and a car slows, turns. I see you, driving, checking the traffic, and you're not checking who's sitting in a parked car across the road. It's you, I know it is, you're only feet away as you wait for a car coming the other way, and then you drive into the garage, the door closing behind you.

I sit there, shaking. Shivering. Pale, and I want to throw up. I open my laptop, and I read through again, everything I've copied. I need to see them again. I need to make sure it wasn't a nightmare. It is, but it's a nightmare that's real. It's true, I know everything in those emails is true. This is where you live. Where you really live. Where you've lived with her for five years, since you were married. You've lied to me. You've lied to me from the very first, and I look at the letter you've written to me.

The letter that tells me you're leaving. Leaving your job. Leaving the country. Leaving me. In two weeks' time, because I've seen the air tickets, in your emails. Tickets for you, and her. You're so organized. Everything's there, on your Google Drive, in folders. Utilities. House Sale. Travel. The moving company. Your taxes. Bank statements. Emails to and from her. Every day. Her parents. Everything about your life with her.

Email folders. I go through them all again. Your friends. Friends I've never met. Never heard of. Family. Two brothers. A sister. You told me you were an only child, that your parents were dead. Lies, they were all lies, because I can see the photos. Your wedding. Your parents. Her parents. So many people I've never heard of from you.

There's that other email address. That other Google Drive, linked to that other email address. The one that's for you and me, and there's not much in that one at all. It's a façade, for emailing with me. Chatting with me. Photos of you that you shared with me, and it's all so fake. It's all an act, and I can't read that letter again. The one you've written, and you weren't even going to tell me you were sorry.

Just that you were leaving, that we weren't right. That it was over between us.

When were you going to tell me? Were you ever going to tell me? Or were you just going to leave, take your clothes and those few things of yours from our... no, my... apartment, and vanish from my life, leaving that letter for me? What did you think I'd think? Did you even think about how much that would hurt me? How much pain I'd feel? How much I loved you? How betrayed I would feel? It's agonizing, that pain, and all I want to do is curl up on my bed and cry.

Except it's not even my bed. Not anymore.

Tears trickling down my face, I start my car, and I drive, except I don't know where I'm driving too, and I drive around and around and around, aimlessly, until at last I return to our apartment, except it's not, and I can't bear to sleep in that bed. It's your bed, you bought it for us. We spend a whole Saturday together, choosing that bed. For you and me, but it was all a lie.

I sleep on the couch, and I only sleep because I'm exhausted.

On Monday, after you go to your work, I'm going to go to your house. I'm going to ask that woman who lives there. Is she really your wife? Are you married? I'm going to take everything with me, and I'm going to find out if it's really true. I don't know how I'm going to say it to her. How I'm going to ask.

But I will. I have to know. I have to.

Now? In that Spanish Café where I asked you to meet me, this evening, I know you tell her the same stories you tell me. She thought you travelled for work, too. She thought she knew you, too, but neither of us did, did we?

Cry? I want to wail in agony, but I can't, not here.

Instead, I sip my coffee, dark, as bitter as my thoughts, and I stare blankly out the window into the grey, wet darkness. It's almost beautiful. The street outside is wet, the rain pouring down, car and van and bus lights shining through the darkness, the bright lights of the shops and restaurants, street lighting, reflections everywhere. I have no idea what I'm going to say to you, but I know that tonight is the end.

The end of you and me, and when I walk out of here, it will be just me, and I don't know what I'll do. I don't know what to do, but that same song is playing, the one that was playing the night we met. Only that night we met, I didn't listen to those words, not to all of them, but I listen now...

cause the night is getting cold

and I don't know where I belong

Just one last dance

The wine and the lights and the Spanish guitar

I'll never forget how romantic they are

but I know, tomorrow I'll lose the one I love

There's no way to come with you

it's the only thing to do

Just one last dance

before we say goodbye...

I want you to hold me tight. I want you to keep me warm, but I know my wishes aren't reality. I know reality. Reality is that letter to me that you wrote, with my name on it, and I know our love is finished forever. I know this is the end, there's no more chances, not for you and I, and there's no way for me to come with me. I'm going to lose you. Lose you forever, and my heart is torn to pieces, but I know. I know. It's the only thing to do...

There's movement outside, movement that draws me out of that reverie, those memories of you and I, and there are so many memories of you and I. I glance at the door, seeing it open, watching you walk inside. It's raining out there. Raining hard, and your Burberry coat is dripping as you hang it on the rack, by the door, with the others. There's not many. It's not crowded, not on a night like tonight, and watching you, I wonder what lies you'll tell me tonight, before you leave.

It doesn't matter. She came around earlier, I helped her take all your clothes. Everything of yours that was in my little apartment, it's gone. Loaded in the back of her car, and tonight, when I get back, I'll be moving myself. I talked to the rental office. I know the old lady in the office, she's Canadian, from Montreal, and she enjoys it when I practice my French on her.

I talked to her, explained a little, and she's moving me to another apartment. I already have the keys. She's asked a couple of other tenants to help me move. They're students, she asked them, and they said sure, no problem, they'll be there tonight, when I get back. All I have to do is call them, and one of them, Andrew, he offered to come here with me, when I break up with you, so that I'd feel safe. To start with, I was going to say no, but I realise that I don't know you. I don't know you at all, and who knows what you might do when I tell you it's over.

He's sitting in the far corner, sipping on his coffee, not watching, except that I know he is, even though he looks like he's reading an old Graham Greene novel.

"Hi, sorry I'm late," you say, bending over and kissing me, before you slide in to the booth in the back corner of the Spanish café, opposite me. The way you slid in opposite me, that night we first met. How long ago was that? A year ago? Back when I'd just started University. It seems an eternity ago, now. A lifetime, and I'm not a girl now.

I'm a woman. I thought I was your woman. Forever.

Just you and me, that's what you said.

I believed you back then.

Now? Now I know the truth, but I still can't bear the pain of standing up, and walking away, and when you reach out to take my hands in yours, I acquiesce. My hands clasp yours, the blood rushes to my head, my eyes drink you in; my body says I'm yours. Forever yours.

"Let's dance," I say, listening to the music, and I don't want to talk. I don't want to hear your voice. I won't go back to the apartment with you tonight, or any other night now, but still, I can't resist the urge to have you take me in my arms.

We stand together, and you do, you take me into your arms, and it's like the first time. That first night we met, here in the Spanish Café, where we danced together, round and round, on and on, and now I want just one last dance, before we say goodbye, and I know she'll be here, soon.

"Let's go soon," you say, swaying with me, and I close my eyes, trying to pretend, but I can't. I know I can't, but still I love you, and I wish there was another chance. I wish. Oh how I wish.

before we say goodbye

when we sway and turn round and round and round

it's like the first time

Just one more chance

hold me tight and keep me warm

cause the night is getting cold

and I don't know where I belong

Just one last dance

Just one last dance, just one more chance, just one last dance

The music plays on, for us, and I sing, softly, a whisper that only I hear, and you can't see my lips moving. My face is buried against your chest, breathing in the scent of you for the last time. We're the only ones dancing in that Spanish café, and it's the last time I'll dance in your arms. I know that, even if you don't, not yet. I'm lost in your arms, swaying with you, round and round and round, not wanting this music to end, not wanting this song to end, but I know it will.

I know it will, and I know how this night will end.

I see her, she's at the door, walking inside, closing her umbrella, her hair wet from the rain, just as mine was, on that night we met, and I know that moment I've been dreading is here, now.

"I love you," I whisper, my heart breaking anew as I say those words, and I do, I love you so much, and this time, you hear my whisper.

"I love you, Estelle," you say, softly, looking down at me, and I wonder if that's a lie too, like all the other lies you told me. I know it's a lie. I read your letter to me. The one you haven't given me yet.

The one you will never give me. Not now.

"I love you," you say again, your arms holding me, and I want to believe you so much.

The music's playing on. On and on and on, as we sway and turn, round and round and round, but she's standing there, watching, waiting, and like me, she has tears in her eyes, and I never want to leave your arms,. Never, but I must, because I know you'll never leave her. Not for me. You're married to her. To her wealth. To her family. To everything you have, everything you value over me, and maybe you do love me. Maybe you mean those words you've said, but I don't think you do, that's just wishful thinking, a dream, and you'll never leave her.

Not for me.

Not for a nineteen year old girl, and I know what I am to you. I think I do, anyhow, and my heart is broken glass, splintered into fragments, as shattered as my dreams.

"Shall we go back to our apartment?" you ask, again.

I know you want to, and why, and my body wants you. My body longs for you, and even now, even knowing what I do, I'd go with you for the ecstasy you bring me to. I'd go with you for the joy of giving you what I know you desire so much, except... I know. I know it's a lie, and it's not my love you seek. It's my body, it's the pleasure I give you, not the love I thought I was giving you, and I want to, but I can't.

"I love you," I say, just as softly, gazing up into your eyes, and in this moment, I do. I love you so much, and I can't do this. I can't, but I have too. I have to do this for myself. I love you, and I'd love nothing more than for you to hold me tight, keep me warm, hold me in your arms forever, but I know you won't. I know the truth, and now, when I gaze into your eyes, I love you, but that love was always mine, and mine alone. Only mine.

Never ours.

You're leaving me.

That love was never yours.

"I love you, but you lied to me, didn't you? You're not going to leave her, I know that. I know you're moving. Not just moving. You're leaving the country. You've got that new job, running that company for her dad, and the baby's due soon, isn't it?"

My eyes hold yours, and your face? Your expression? I know it's true. Every word she told me, everything I found out over this last weekend and today, it's true, and there's no more chances. No more hope. There's nothing except pain and sadness and hurt, and whatever hope that remained burns to ashes in that long silence as we stand, frozen in that last step of that last dance.

Your face tells me it's true. It's all true, and all I have left is my own strength, and my pride. That's all I have now, and I know I've been living a dream, and it's as if I've been robbed. Part of me has been stolen, my love has been violated, and yet, still I love you, and the pain is beyond anything I've ever imagined.

"You have to go now," I say, my face buried in your shoulder, my tears soaking into your jacket, and I'm trembling. Shaking. Shivering, and this is an agony I've never imagined. "It's over. It's ended."

"Estelle?" you say, and if I didn't know the truth, I'd believe from the anguish in your voice that I'm mistaken. That it wasn't a lie. That you really do love me, but I can see her, standing there, watching us, and her face, she's hurting too. She's hurting, and she's carrying your child, and she loves you too. I love you, but it was true, all of it.