Mag-log inIn October she went through the new house the way she had gone through the flat onthe Thursday evening in August before the move, room by room, with the full attention.Not because she was leaving. She was not leaving. She was in the house and staying inthe house and the going through it was not the preparation for the leaving but theattending-to, the specific quality of attention she gave the important things at intervals,the recurrent acknowledgment that she was in the space and the space was hers andthe being-in-the-space required the occasional deliberate attending-to.She went through on a Sunday evening when he was at the academy for something andthe baby was asleep.She started in the hallway.The hallway had the bowl and the hall table and the hooks and the curtain rail. Thecurtain rail was on the wall, had been on the wall since the fifth day, and had the qualityof a thing that had always been there, which was the quality everything acquiredeventually in the right sp
The session that marked something happened on a Thursday in September.She had been doing Thursdays since she returned from leave in March and theThursdays had been the Thursdays they always were, the specific quality of the last dayof her working week, the accumulation of the Tuesday-Wednesday-Thursday sessionsand the quality they produced by the afternoon of the third day, the tiredness and thesatisfaction of three days of the work done.The session was not the last of the day.It was the third, out of four, which was the position in the schedule where sessionssometimes produced the specific quality of surprise, the thing arriving in the thirdsession that you had not seen coming from the first or second, the way the worksometimes worked.She was with a client she had been seeing for eight months.The client was a woman of thirty-eight who had come to the practice with the specificpresenting issue of difficulty in her closest relationships, the specific pattern of closerelat
The fifth anniversary of the relationship arrived on a Sunday in the summer.She had not been counting the years. She did not keep anniversary dates with theprecision of some people she knew, the specific marking of exact dates and the planningof occasions around them. She had the awareness of the year, the understanding thatthey were in the fifth year and then at the fifth year, the same way she was aware of thebaby’s months without always knowing the exact number.He knew the date.She had known he would know the date. He was a person who retained the importantdates without effort, the May date and the baby’s birth date and the date they hadmoved into the flat and the date of the wedding and presumably this date, the date ofthe Thursday in year one when she had come to complain about the music and hadstood in his hallway and had made a decision that turned out to be wrong and had beenrevised in the subsequent months into the right decision.He made the reservation himself.
Leon came on a Saturday in May when he was nineteen.Not to the academy — he had been coming to the academy since he was sixteen and theacademy visits were what they were, the professional relationship between the playerand the coach, the sessions and the conversations and the curriculum. This wasdifferent. He came to the house.He had called on the Wednesday and asked Damien if he could come on Saturday, whichwas itself different from all the previous ways Leon had communicated, the text in themornings before sessions and the brief conversations after, all of which had been in theprofessional register of the player-coach relationship. He had called on a Wednesdayand asked if he could come on Saturday, which was the register of a person who neededa conversation outside the professional context.She made tea.This was the right thing to do. She had made tea for many people in many kitchens atmany different stages of things requiring tea, and Leon arriving on a Saturday with a
In April it became theirs.Not on a specific day, not as a decision or an event. The way things that were yoursbecame yours, which was through the accumulation of the ordinary, the daily-ness ofthe space absorbing the daily-ness of the people in it until the space and the peoplewere no longer separate things, the space simply the space of their lives and their livessimply the lives they lived in this space.She noticed it on a Tuesday in April when she came home from the practice and put herkey in the bowl on the hall table — the bowl was on the hall table in the new hallway, thesame bowl, in the position she had given it in the first week, and her key went in the bowlthe way her key had gone in the bowl for six years and the going-in was simply thegoing-in, natural and automatic and thoughtless in the best possible way — and shestood in the new hallway and she understood that she was home.Not home in the aspirational sense. Not home as in I am working toward being at homeh
She walked on a Tuesday in February.Not the first steps — the first steps had been in January, in the flat’s second bedroom,before the move, the specific event that had arrived before they expected it in the waythat the baby’s events tended to arrive, on the baby’s schedule rather than anyoneelse’s. She had taken three steps toward him in the second bedroom before the move,three steps across the rug, and then sat down with the expression of a person who hadjust discovered something significant and was not yet sure what to do with thediscovery.She had not walked consistently until February.February was when the walking became the way she moved, not the occasional threesteps as experiment but the deliberate walking as method, the preferred mode of transitthrough the new house. She walked across the kitchen toward the bowl she hadidentified as interesting. She walked down the hallway toward the front door, which shealso found interesting. She walked into the living room and
She woke up and knew exactly where she was. No foggy confusion, no blinking at strange walls. Just the solid weight of Damien’s arm across her waist, the unfamiliar slant of light through his curtains, and that smell—his smell—that she’d stopped pretending she didn’t like days ago.She stayed still
She lasted until midnight.That was the honest truth of it. She lay on his sofa with his blanket pulled up to her chin and stared at the ceiling and listened to the rain and told herself she was fine, she was comfortable, she was absolutely not thinking about the man sleeping fifteen feet away from
Maintenance said three days.Three days to fix the pipe, treat the damp, assess the flooring, do whatever it was they needed to do before the apartment was liveable again. Olivia stood in her doorway on Monday morning and looked at the state of it — the warped floorboards, the smell of wet plaster,
She woke up before him.6am, grey light coming through the gaps in his curtains, the television having switched itself off sometime in the night. For a moment — just a brief, disoriented moment — she forgot where she was. Then it came back. The flood. The knock. The blanket that smelled faintly of







