Body Language
by Angus Shoor Caan
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: Some mild ones.
Description: Breaking up is very hard to do.
Swearwords: Some mild ones.
Description: Breaking up is very hard to do.
Make no bones about it, my head was in bits. It was the shrug of the shoulders that kicked it all off, although I at first thought it to be a knee-jerk reaction to my heartfelt rhetoric on the state of the relationship.
Before it all went tits up we only had eyes for each other, dancing cheek to cheek, toe to toe, pawing at buttocks and anything else within reach. All too soon the pace dropped considerably and the insinuations reared their ugly heads. She pointed the finger, I was up in arms. I binned her, gave her the elbow and, not for the first time, she wept, bawled her eyes out, but by then I was unmoved by her histrionics. We had fought until neither of us had the stomach for it. One of her favourite comebacks was that she hated my guts.
She flounced out of the house, had it away on her toes just as fast as her long legs would carry her, throwing her eyes back to the window to see if I was watching her progress. I wasn't: I was, but I wasn't.
I was glad to see the back of her, the cold shoulder treatment having long since ceased to tug at my heartstrings; in fact, playing more on my nerves than anything else.
I offered to help her pack, give her a hand but she plonked her backside on the bed and folded her arms across her ample chest until I backed off. However, there was one final tongue lashing in her before she called it quits but the dog caught most of that. I had long since learned to cock a deaf ear to her considerable rants. What I did glean from it was that she had given me the elbow and not vice versa. The cheek of it.
Her bosom buddy Sheena's shindig had started the ball rolling this time. I mean, I was only being polite when I brought Sheena's younger sister a drink. The poor girl's leg was in plaster up to the thigh and I simply pointed it out that she still saw fit to paint her toenails. The pretty young lady was giving me chapter and verse on how she managed to fall arse over tit down the ski slope and I felt it rude not to lend an attentive ear, thinking I could get lost in those soft lips of hers as I concentrated hard on what she was saying and how she was saying it.
I dragged myself away when the ice cube hit my temple, my woman's way of letting me know she wanted yet another drink, and that she was unhappy with my latest interest, innocent as it was. Mind you, it would never have done for me to mention the rapt attention she was serving up to the young barman/glass collector with the broad shoulders and over-exaggerated hips. The kid walked like someone had kicked him in the balls. One law for me and another for herself. I was used to it.
A few moments later, when she had me cornered, she ran a heel down my shin and followed that up with a well-aimed forearm jab, well aimed because I just happened to be taking a swig from a can of beer and the tip of my nose ended up trapped in the hole left by the ring-pull. There was blood.
I bellied up to the bar again but the sour faced barmaid wouldn't serve me since the blood was still pouring from me. She wouldn't even get me a plaster or something to stem the flow. I saw that Sheena's sister had company, two pimply youths hanging on her every word so I headed for the door, cracking a hip on a chair as I awkwardly negotiated a gap. The same young barman thought I was taking the piss when I limped past him.
The after shave stung like a bastard but it was the only way to stop the bleeding. There would be a scar. She followed me home about half an hour later, by which time I was out with the dog. When I returned she had a golf club in her hand, a five iron if I'm not mistaken. It was easy enough to disarm her, drunk as she was but in doing so she fell backwards and landed on her tail bone. I left her sitting there on her arse and put the kettle on for a cup of tea.
I let her get away with hitting me early on in the relationship when she was bevvied, and soon came to realise she was a violent drunk, but usually it was easy to deflect the blows. Not always, and I have the scars to prove it. One time she took her forehead off my chin so hard I thought she had broken something, on me, not on herself. She was always so sorry in the morning if I could get it through to her just what she had done. Friends had started taking notice but I'm old school and could never hit a woman, tempted as I had often been.
She went to bed muttering and grumbling and I found a film to watch, an old western; deciding I would kip on the settee, again. The dog curled up at my feet. He tended to hang with me when he knew she had been drinking; more often than that if I'm honest, although he was happy enough to let her walk and feed him when she was sober and I wasn't around. I had the sneakiest feeling she might well have been handy with him while in her cups, much as she was with me, or tried to be. I at least knew the signs.
She asked where her breakfast was and I told her it was in the dog. I was washing up, the aromas of bacon, sausages, eggs, fried bread and grilled tomato still lingering, and possibly what had enticed her out of bed. The dog was chasing his bowl around the kitchen as if to add credence to what I had said and I turned from the sink to face her. She caught sight of the angry red circle around the tip of my nose and I saw the realisation that she'd had something to do with its being there spread across her face, slowly.
That's when I told her to pack her bags. To get the hell out and not to come back and that's when she knew I meant it; that the game was a bogey, that she had pished on her chips.
The bottom lip trembled and the tears came but I was on my way out with the dog by then, and I didn't look back.
I gave the dog a good run down on the beach and called for a paper on the way home. It was Saturday, sport on the telly all day, so I decided I would stay home to save answering questions on my new scar. She hadn't moved, so I told her again to pack her bags, and that's when I offered to help. She screamed the bit down until I banged some music on, full bum; the windows were rattling to the strains of Lynyrd Skynyrd. She huffed upstairs and I turned it down before spreading my newspaper over the kitchen table.
The dog's dishes were drying on the draining board when she dragged her case downstairs. She also had one of those supermarket bags for life and she stuffed it half full with what clothes she had put in the washing machine. She deposited the dog's bowls on top and I had to pick the paper up to hide my laughter when he objected and tried to remove them.
I heard her talking to someone on the phone and ten minutes later a car horn honked outside. Her cousin had come to pick her up, a mate of mine, the same bastard who introduced us and didn't let on she was a hitter, a violent drunk; funny how I hadn't seen him since. I'll bide my time, but I'll be having a quiet word with him about that.
I stood well back and watched her struggle along the path. She looked back and I smiled, knowing she couldn't see me and knowing the dog was sitting at my heel. I can’t swear to it but I'm sure he was smiling too.
Before it all went tits up we only had eyes for each other, dancing cheek to cheek, toe to toe, pawing at buttocks and anything else within reach. All too soon the pace dropped considerably and the insinuations reared their ugly heads. She pointed the finger, I was up in arms. I binned her, gave her the elbow and, not for the first time, she wept, bawled her eyes out, but by then I was unmoved by her histrionics. We had fought until neither of us had the stomach for it. One of her favourite comebacks was that she hated my guts.
She flounced out of the house, had it away on her toes just as fast as her long legs would carry her, throwing her eyes back to the window to see if I was watching her progress. I wasn't: I was, but I wasn't.
I was glad to see the back of her, the cold shoulder treatment having long since ceased to tug at my heartstrings; in fact, playing more on my nerves than anything else.
I offered to help her pack, give her a hand but she plonked her backside on the bed and folded her arms across her ample chest until I backed off. However, there was one final tongue lashing in her before she called it quits but the dog caught most of that. I had long since learned to cock a deaf ear to her considerable rants. What I did glean from it was that she had given me the elbow and not vice versa. The cheek of it.
Her bosom buddy Sheena's shindig had started the ball rolling this time. I mean, I was only being polite when I brought Sheena's younger sister a drink. The poor girl's leg was in plaster up to the thigh and I simply pointed it out that she still saw fit to paint her toenails. The pretty young lady was giving me chapter and verse on how she managed to fall arse over tit down the ski slope and I felt it rude not to lend an attentive ear, thinking I could get lost in those soft lips of hers as I concentrated hard on what she was saying and how she was saying it.
I dragged myself away when the ice cube hit my temple, my woman's way of letting me know she wanted yet another drink, and that she was unhappy with my latest interest, innocent as it was. Mind you, it would never have done for me to mention the rapt attention she was serving up to the young barman/glass collector with the broad shoulders and over-exaggerated hips. The kid walked like someone had kicked him in the balls. One law for me and another for herself. I was used to it.
A few moments later, when she had me cornered, she ran a heel down my shin and followed that up with a well-aimed forearm jab, well aimed because I just happened to be taking a swig from a can of beer and the tip of my nose ended up trapped in the hole left by the ring-pull. There was blood.
I bellied up to the bar again but the sour faced barmaid wouldn't serve me since the blood was still pouring from me. She wouldn't even get me a plaster or something to stem the flow. I saw that Sheena's sister had company, two pimply youths hanging on her every word so I headed for the door, cracking a hip on a chair as I awkwardly negotiated a gap. The same young barman thought I was taking the piss when I limped past him.
The after shave stung like a bastard but it was the only way to stop the bleeding. There would be a scar. She followed me home about half an hour later, by which time I was out with the dog. When I returned she had a golf club in her hand, a five iron if I'm not mistaken. It was easy enough to disarm her, drunk as she was but in doing so she fell backwards and landed on her tail bone. I left her sitting there on her arse and put the kettle on for a cup of tea.
I let her get away with hitting me early on in the relationship when she was bevvied, and soon came to realise she was a violent drunk, but usually it was easy to deflect the blows. Not always, and I have the scars to prove it. One time she took her forehead off my chin so hard I thought she had broken something, on me, not on herself. She was always so sorry in the morning if I could get it through to her just what she had done. Friends had started taking notice but I'm old school and could never hit a woman, tempted as I had often been.
She went to bed muttering and grumbling and I found a film to watch, an old western; deciding I would kip on the settee, again. The dog curled up at my feet. He tended to hang with me when he knew she had been drinking; more often than that if I'm honest, although he was happy enough to let her walk and feed him when she was sober and I wasn't around. I had the sneakiest feeling she might well have been handy with him while in her cups, much as she was with me, or tried to be. I at least knew the signs.
She asked where her breakfast was and I told her it was in the dog. I was washing up, the aromas of bacon, sausages, eggs, fried bread and grilled tomato still lingering, and possibly what had enticed her out of bed. The dog was chasing his bowl around the kitchen as if to add credence to what I had said and I turned from the sink to face her. She caught sight of the angry red circle around the tip of my nose and I saw the realisation that she'd had something to do with its being there spread across her face, slowly.
That's when I told her to pack her bags. To get the hell out and not to come back and that's when she knew I meant it; that the game was a bogey, that she had pished on her chips.
The bottom lip trembled and the tears came but I was on my way out with the dog by then, and I didn't look back.
I gave the dog a good run down on the beach and called for a paper on the way home. It was Saturday, sport on the telly all day, so I decided I would stay home to save answering questions on my new scar. She hadn't moved, so I told her again to pack her bags, and that's when I offered to help. She screamed the bit down until I banged some music on, full bum; the windows were rattling to the strains of Lynyrd Skynyrd. She huffed upstairs and I turned it down before spreading my newspaper over the kitchen table.
The dog's dishes were drying on the draining board when she dragged her case downstairs. She also had one of those supermarket bags for life and she stuffed it half full with what clothes she had put in the washing machine. She deposited the dog's bowls on top and I had to pick the paper up to hide my laughter when he objected and tried to remove them.
I heard her talking to someone on the phone and ten minutes later a car horn honked outside. Her cousin had come to pick her up, a mate of mine, the same bastard who introduced us and didn't let on she was a hitter, a violent drunk; funny how I hadn't seen him since. I'll bide my time, but I'll be having a quiet word with him about that.
I stood well back and watched her struggle along the path. She looked back and I smiled, knowing she couldn't see me and knowing the dog was sitting at my heel. I can’t swear to it but I'm sure he was smiling too.
About the Author
Angus Shoor Caan is in an ex-seaman and rail worker. Born and bred in Saltcoats, he returned to Scotland after many years in England and found the time to begin writing.
Angus is the author of thirteen novels, two short story collections and seven collections of poems. All but four of his books are McStorytellers publications.
You can read his full profile on McVoices.
Angus is the author of thirteen novels, two short story collections and seven collections of poems. All but four of his books are McStorytellers publications.
You can read his full profile on McVoices.