He is fantasising about rescue. Like a man at the bottom of a cliff conscious only of a dangerous numbness at the base of his spine, or pain so awful that he cannot scream over the white noise filling his skull. Perhaps, sometimes, you only have time enough to register that the accident is a bad one. Seconds spill out like coins from a dropped purse, spinning away across the floor, stuffing your head with a complex, unforgiving feathery silence, or the sound of radio static.
Like this, he realises that the argument was their finale. Sickly yellow light pours in from the street, while the echoes of all his words skitter though the room like an army of poisonous spiders. Already his skin begins to cool, losing heat from their shared sleep. A broken cup gapes at him reproachfully, china shards scattered across the floor like milk teeth.
The texture of the air has changed. Before it was thick with breathing, a slow rolling shush warming the nape of his neck. It is no coincidence that our breath sounds like the ocean gently breaking its heart upon the shore. Funny how music of all kinds can lift you somewhere precise and usually painful. Memory is our reminder that glass was once sand.
It is with these numb thoughts that he wanders slowly back into their room. The sheets are rumpled and strangely fixed and solid-looking, like unhappy fossils. He does not want to disturb the shape of them, that would be too much like clearing out the wardrobe of someone who has died. Instead he sits on the edge of the bed, rolling a name around his mouth like unripe fruit, and recalls the morning they fed each other green grapes, laughing.
The breaking of dawn brings with it the sound of traffic and his head is full of gnawing black and disconnected thoughts – like the man at the base of the cliff with the shattered back – the senselessness of everything. Flower petals raped by violent rain. The shrill whistle of adolescent seagulls. Meredith asking gentle questions of a blind man, like someone trying too hard to be good. The spots of blood from a nosebleed on the back of his hand, a swathe of stubborn poppies blooming in a white field.