DejaVu Production

The weather is sad today, and little light comes into the kitchen. I woke up early this morning. I had trouble sleeping. At 5:30 when I heard the noise of the first cars, I called to John softly. His breath was irregular, I knew he was awake. I waited a little, my lips so close to his ear it was almost a kiss, but he kept his eyes closed. So I slid out of the bed and took refuge here. When we first moved in I made a mural on the west wall of this room, with broken pieces of mirror, ceramic, colourful porcelain, glass… When it was finished and I showed it to John, he said it was adorably ugly and blamed it on my Spanish origins. I like it, it captures and reflects the sun at any time of the day; it makes this house warmer. But this morning everything is grey. I open the cupboard, mechanically take out the ground coffee we bought in Italy last summer, pour it in the pot and stay. This is absurd, he has barely acknowledged me this past week. I am only going to embarrass myself if I prepare hand-made coffee for him. I put everything back, blushing. I cannot summon my strength to make my cup of tea. I go lean my forehead against the window pane, and the cool glass is a small relief. Outside the garden is covered in a damp shroud of fog: all is silent and still. Nature, orphaned, erased in a blurry cloud, is mourning. Behind me, the water in the coffee-maker starts to boil and I feel a twinge of despair. He would never set it before. I would always do it for him.

The stairs creak and I dash to the nearest chair. I put my hands on the table, then on my lap, then on the table again. I wish I could look like I’m doing something. So self-conscious. John comes in, stops on the threshold, looks directly at the window and brushes his hair with his hand. He looks tired with blue rings under his eyes. We used to sleep in each other’s arms but now that he insists on keeping to his side of the bed, neither one of us gets any rest. He goes straight to the breakfast cupboard without even a glimpse at me, opens its door, takes a cup, puts it on the counter, takes a saucer, puts the cup on the saucer - we both start at the tinkling sound this makes. He takes the box of sugar from the shelf, opens a drawer with his other hand, closes it, opens another one, closes it and casts a puzzled look around him. Without a word, he comes round the table, brushes past me and opens the chest behind me. He rummages in it, and finally reappears with a spoon in his hand, passes me without a glance, and puts the spoon on the side of the saucer. Then he walks out.

I realise I’ve stopped breathing.

I hear him in the hallway, and he comes back in with the newspaper. His eyes on the first page, he lays the newspaper on the table, so close it almost touches my fingers. He turns his back to me, takes a couple of sugar cubes from the box, takes the pot out of the coffee maker, pours himself a cup of coffee, and drops the pieces of sugar in it. They make a curious plop when they break the surface. He takes the saucer with his right hand, the spoon with his left hand, and mixes the drink with tolling noises. He puts the spoon back on the saucer, puts the saucer on the table and pulls out the chair opposite me. He sits without a glimpse, and without a word, he begins leafing through the journal with an excruciating sound of paper. He brings the cup to his lips. Swallows. His pupils go back and forth in his eyes as he reads through the text, and I grow colder. For a moment, I stare at the hypnotizing movement of his cup, back and forth from the table to his mouth and from the mouth to the table. Suddenly, his pupils stop their relentless race and his hand tenses around the paper. He gazes unflinchingly, then averts his eyes, puts the paper down and closes it. He briskly pushes his chair back, stands up, and without looking at me, he walks out of the room.

The stairs creak, I don’t move, his footsteps over my head. The stairs creak, the sound of his suitcase against the wall, a crumpling of clothes in the entrance. He walks back in with his coat on. Without looking at me, he takes the cup and the saucer and the spoon and puts them in the washing machine. Without glancing at me, he puts the box of sugar back on the shelf. Without a word, he walks out of the kitchen. Without a look, without a word, he opens the door, and closes it behind him.

Silence.

I am empty of tears.

Slowly, I take hold of the newspaper and rotate it towards me. I turn to the page he has creased and glaze it gently with my hand. Then I see.

Obituaries. Karen Estrella Livingston. 19 March 2007. Sculptor, she founded the Frestic art movement with the financial support of her husband John Livingston, and is credited with bringing a fresh approach to the London Art School, where she began teaching three years ago.