Caroline Eriksson - The Watcher

Yet again I find myself in the middle of the room without anywhere to go, without anyone to latch on to. My body turns of its own accord, my eyes seek out the dark hair on the back of Philip’s head and stop there. No matter how I try to make them move on, it’s like they’re locked on him. There I stand in the middle of the restaurant, among all these seated people, just staring.

They’re chatting with each other, leaning so far in over the table that their faces are practically touching. If he kisses her here, in front of all these people, what do I do then? Something inside me tightens, harder and harder, while the redhead once again looks up at me. This time her eyes linger even longer. I know that I have to look away, that I need to stop staring, but I can’t. An eternity passes, or maybe it’s only a second. Then several things happen in rapid succession.

I move forward as Philip gets up and strides away toward the area behind the bar, where the restrooms are located. I increase my pace and approach their table. You’re in danger. My lips form the words, but his back is to me. He doesn’t seem aware of my presence. Someone else is, though. A hand shoots out and unfamiliar fingers circle around my wrist.

“Do you need help with something?”

Philip disappears around the corner, and I turn my eyes to the woman beside me. Her eyes are hazel, and her cheeks rosy. Curly strands of red hair fall from her careless updo. It is as far from a tight, well-brushed, glossy ponytail as you can get. Maybe that’s why Philip is attracted to her, because of the contrast to his wife.

We stare at each other for a second, then my eyes roam down to her fingers, which are still gripping my wrist. She’s holding on tight. Let go of me! The words form, rising up from inside my body, but don’t make it out. They stop at the idea stage, stuck in my throat. I gather all the strength I can muster to tug my arm free. I use too much force and tip to the side, losing both my balance and my wineglass, which falls to the floor and shatters.

I look down, glass and wine everywhere. Somewhere, someone screams. I become aware of a harshness in my own throat and realize that’s where the scream is coming from. It grows quiet around me, or maybe my ears are plugged up. The redheaded woman is looking at me differently now, her eyes wide, her hands up in the air in front of her, palms up, and her body pressed against her chair back. My eyes slide over to the next table and then the next and the next, flickering around the restaurant. And no matter where I look, I encounter the same raised eyebrows, the same furrowed brows and concerned looks. A crazy woman, that’s what they take me for.

From a distance, I see the skinny man dressed in black making a beeline toward me through the crowded room. I cast one last glance down at the redhead. Her lips are moving, but I can’t hear her words. Maybe I say something to her, maybe I don’t. Then I turn around and dart through the room as quickly as I can, rush to the door, out onto the sidewalk, and hurry down the street without looking where I’m going, rushing across crosswalks and around street corners, through light and through darkness, into nothingness.

Back to the ruins of what was once my life.

I met Anna today. Just for once we had decided to meet out somewhere. I don’t know if it was that successful. At first everything felt fairly normal. We chatted, and she laughed, but I feel like she changed somehow, that something was weighing on her. We left fairly quickly, opting to go to her place instead and having sex in the unmade bed. But even during that, something felt different, as if both of our minds were somewhere else.

It was the first time we had gotten together since I’d told my wife about us. Anna wanted to know how she had taken it. One thing led to another, and suddenly I was lying there telling her my wife’s story. I revealed the fact that she’d been cheated on once before, in her youth, and what that had driven her to do to herself.

Now, after the fact, obviously I realize that I should have checked myself, that I never should have shared that. It’s my wife’s darkest secret, and I took the liberty of bringing it into the light, a confidence—yet another one—that I’ve betrayed. No matter how terrible her actions were back then, I had no right to discuss them with someone else.

I think about that now, back home again. My wife and I are lying side by side on our marital mattress, silence like a thick wall between our bodies. Why did I tell Anna about the scar and how it came to be? How could I have betrayed my wife so cruelly?

When I shared that, I hadn’t given it much thought. I was mostly focused on Anna. I noticed that she grew quiet and pulled away, but it wasn’t until I rolled over and saw how pale she’d become, how all the color had drained from her cheeks, that it occurred to me how hard she was taking the information. And I was reminded of my own reaction when I found out, reminded of how I sat hunched on the toilet seat, sure that I would vomit every last bit of what was inside of me, that I didn’t understand how I would ever be able to look my wife in the eyes again.

At her place, Anna was the one averting her gaze from me. She rubbed the edge of the duvet between her fingers.

“A kitchen knife?” she whispered. “Do you really mean a completely normal kitchen knife? Like, she just sort of… hacked away at herself with a kitchen knife? And what did she use for stitches? Did she have some kind of medical suture thread? I mean, you don’t just take a regular old spool of sewing thread and start…”

Her voice faltered, and she grew quiet. I didn’t know what to say. I had never asked the kinds of concrete questions Anna was asking now. They’d scarcely even occurred to me. The details weren’t what mattered to me. It was inconceivable that anyone could do such a thing to herself, that it was even possible at all. I pointed this out to Anna, realizing my voice sounded a bit tense, maybe even disapproving, but she didn’t seem to notice.

“She doesn’t seem normal.”

“What do you mean?”

Then she picked up the other note in my voice. She put her hand on my chest and looked me in the eyes, very seriously.

“She’s capable of anything, your wife.”

“Oh, this all happened a long time ago. She was practically a kid still.”

“She was twenty-one,” Anna said. “That’s an adult in my book.”

I was forced to break the eye contact. The intimacy was a little too intense. I wanted to believe that what my wife did back then didn’t have anything to do with who she was now. I wanted to believe that it could be categorized as youthful folly. I wanted to believe that but didn’t succeed. That was the reason we found ourselves here in the first place, Anna and I.

We lay in silence for a bit. Anna had snuggled up to me again, and her skin stuck to mine.

“Should I be worried?” she suddenly asked.

I turned my head and furrowed my brow at her.

“Worried about what?”

“That she’ll come look me up?”

“She doesn’t know who you are.”

Anna rolled over onto her back, taking the hand that had been on my chest with her. That was the wrong answer, apparently. I rolled onto my side, propping myself up on my elbow on the mattress and resting my head in the palm of my hand. There was no mistaking the displeasure in her face.

“She’s not out to hurt you.”

Anna chewed on her lower lip.

“Or me,” I added.

Then she turned to face me again. We looked at each other for a long time. Then she scooted closer and put her arm around me.

“Hold me tight,” she whispered.