Late Turn

When she came to say goodbye, I think we both knew it really was goodbye. She had a speech prepared, and everything she said was right.
I didn’t listen.
I heard what she said, but I didn’t listen. Instead, I stared into space, a talent of mine.

I remember staring at her belt, and thinking that I didn’t recognise it. Is that a result of my lack of caring, or just the situation I was in? It was rainbow coloured, with a silver coloured buckle, something that I can physically see now when I close my eyes.

I was sitting on the spare bed, in the flat that was once ours. There were tears in her eyes, and I know there were in mine.

“No,” I said, and kept repeating; “No.” My mind was made up.
She kept talking, and what she said was all true. How often was it wrong? But I tried not to think about it. Instead, there was only one thought clear in my mind.
“I’ve got to iron my shirt for late turn.”

I do love my job, but God alone knows I hate it sometimes. I should have listened, I should have called in sick, I should have shown her the respect she deserved.
Instead, she left, I ironed my shirt, went to late turn, nicked a guy for being wanted on warrant.

Came back, cleared out the flat, cleaned it, and slept on the floor in an empty flat that we once called home.

And it comes back to me regularly, when I look for a dvd and realise I don’t have it anymore as I bought it for her. Or listen to a song that was “ours.” Or when I finish work and start to text her to tell her I’m on my way home, then remember I’m not going home to her.

Most of all, I want to apologise to her, to explain that in fact I fucked up, that I was wrong and she was right. But I know that if I care for her the best thing I can do is leave her alone.

So instead, I keep going to late turn, and turn up to fights, and traffic accidents, and try and forget about the flat that was our home.

Thank God Coppers don’t have feelings, eh?