The Doll's House

117

He worked the machine furiously, his anger with himself – with the world – unconcealed from all around. People came in and out as usual, but where he would normally exchange pleasantries with them, today he served them in silence, his glowering expression enough to repel any casual conversation.

A sudden sharp pain made him look down. Distracted, he had taken his eye off the machine and the blade had sliced his thumb right open.

‘Fuck.’

He spat the word out, but it didn’t make him feel any better. Blood oozed from the deep cut. Flicking the machine off, he hurried out back, swathing his injured finger in rounds of paper towelling. The blood seeped through the pale green towelling, but it looked more black than brown.

Why was he such a failure? Such a waste of space? Was he forever to be on this journey, searching, searching, searching – but finding only misery and crushing desolation. How could he have got it so wrong? He could see now that she wasn’t Summer. He had just been trying to convince himself, hoping against hope that her coldness and rough manner was some reserved anger at their long separation. But it had actually been because she was a nasty, worthless slut. Why had he lavished so much care, attention and – yes – love on her, when all she wanted to do was throw it back in his face and return to her peevish little step-family, who thought she was nothing but trouble. He knew enough about her to know that she spurned and ridiculed those who tried to help – why hadn’t he seen the signs. Why had he exposed himself in this way?

The blood was still oozing from his cut. There was no way he could do any more work today, so he might as well shut up shop. It was far too early to close and there would no doubt be a few shoppers confused by his unusual absence. His first instinct was to say ‘Stuff them’ but caution – his watchword – reasserted itself once more. So, having turned off the till, he started writing out a note blaming ‘Staff sickness’ for the temporary closure of the shop. It was hard going – he wasn’t used to writing with his left hand – and he was still writing when the ringing bell alerted him to the arrival of a customer.

‘We’re closed,’ he barked without looking up.

‘The sign said you were open and this won’t take a minute.’

Her voice was soft and gentle. But he didn’t look up, concentrating even harder on his note.

‘Please could you squeeze me in?’

Sighing, he put down his pen. No point creating questions, when it was so easy to serve her and send her on her way. Looking up, he held out his hand.

‘Oh, you’re bleeding. Are you ok?’

Her voice matched her features, which were delicate and pretty. Her accent was local but subtle and she had a kindness in her expression that instantly put you at your ease.

‘Can I help at all?’

Still he couldn’t speak. It seemed impossible and yet it was true. As if the cosmos was listening. This lovely kind girl who was offering the hand of friendship had walked right into his shop, right into his life. Like he always imagined she would. He let her examine his wound, but as she did so, he never took his gaze off her, transfixed by her delicate nose, her long, black hair and those piercing blue eyes.