Here's what's wrong...

1. You folded up my washing, that is almost dry but not quite. You did this because you always think you know best and you don't want me hanging around your house, but you come to say goodnight to me and want to chat. I don't want to chat, because there's no point in doing so, because you won't ever listen to me. I am like a child to you, and you will never take my advice, nor will you ever take me seriously. You think the same things about me as I do about myself, and that is more damaging than if you thought differently.

2. I think that you think that I am incapable, and hopeless, and not qualified enough, without a certain depth that is required to succeed.

3. I am angry that I can't say any of this to you, because it'll only result in you being right, as always. You'll never consider the possibility that you might be wrong. Nor the possibility that I might be right.

4. I have accepted that this is your house, and that I haven't really got a place here. I cannot, however, accept that you also hold jurisdiction over my clothes.

5. I need to move out.

6. I am feeling hopeless because everyone else's life is moving on, whereas mine seems to be one dead-end job after another without any semblance of love. I am travelling the world but distancing myself from all of my friends, who forget me. It's easy to do.

I want to cry or shout. I will probably do neither.

Hello. Tell me all about your day...

Hello darling.

You're in the centre of England, and I'm over here. I've started a new job. It's reasonable; not as exciting as I thought it would be, but I'm learning a lot. People don't understand my accent, when I speak French. I'm foreign. I'm also losing that finesse I used to have in my mother tongue, I feel somehow duller.

I think of you often, mostly before going to sleep. You are a comforting thought. When I see you, you hold me so tight. You tell me beautiful things, and true things, and you make me reconsider my previously held views. You are kind and intelligent. You want the best for everyone. You are generous, despite not having much money. You are useful to the world, and have made that your mission in life, apropos of nothing other than a desire to help others. You don't think that this is a rare quality, but it is. Your body is so firm and soft, simultaneously, and your hands have worked so hard. If I ever dared, I think that the first thing I'd do would be to kiss those hands. I'd like to sit next to you and hold your hands gently in mine, then kiss the palms, the fingers.

You write to your granddaughter, you say, maybe, because you aren't sharing your day with anyone else. I say that it's better to share it with nobody than to share it with someone you're not sure about. I hate feeling that disjunct between myself and the person I'm supposed to be closest to. I can't bear it. I'd rather be on my own than pretending to somebody.

What did you wear, on her mother's wedding day, darling? How was it? I hope everyone was kind to you. You often seem almost embarrassed by yourself. You've got conviction in your beliefs; that we don't have to present ourselves or be superficial to be considered sufficient, but at an event, one that's not making you happy, where everyone is dressed up, it must be hard. Being marginal is always hard. If I could, if I was that person, I'd love to be your safe place. I'd love it if my arms made you feel as safe as your arms make me feel. I want to be there after hard days for you to wrap yourself up in. I want to be soft and gentle with you, though I am not, in the world.

I wouldn't have to pretend with you. I wonder how you'd react to being told you're beautiful? I don't think it's your aim in life, beauty. To be beautiful in what you do and say, yes, but to be beautiful... you buy your clothes in second hand shops, and you don't care. I've never seen you wear make up. Your hair is short or wild, and natural, grey. You remind me of a hedgehog, because your cheeks are russet, like the autumn and you smile so readily. Your eyes are bright and kind behind Gandhi glasses. Would it insult you, to call you beautiful? I'd never mean to allay you with supermodels or trashy magazines. I just mean that there's nobody else I'd rather look at, or hear, or touch. The other kind of beauty is cheap; it's bought, or made. Nobody could buy or fabricate what you are. Nobody could buy the feeling of safety elicited from your strong arms wrapped around me, despite your being so much smaller than me. Your beauty is deep and rich, it's extravagant though you're abstemious. Would you be worried, being notified as to your possession of something so luxurious?

You haven't got a passport, hence you won't be following me around Europe. You're steadfast like that. I don't want to return to our isle. Maybe it's homesickness that makes me yearn so for someone familiar, intelligent and kind; or maybe it is simply you.

Love,

me.

I bet you looked beautiful.

Your daughter got married yesterday, to somebody you don't particularly like. I thought of you. You were worried about clothes, and about what you'd say to far-flung relations of opposite convictions to your pacifist self.

I'm sure you were beautiful. I'd have loved to be in your flat at the end of the day, when you came back, tired, to help you out of the clothes you wore and take down your hair. I don't know what you'd have said. 'I feel wrong', or, 'it was quite nice, actually', or, 'it was so uncomfortable', or, 'I didn't know what to say'. I'd have said, 'you look beautiful, my darling, in whatever you wear. However you are. I'm sure that you spoke beautifully, and even if you didn't, then you are beautiful. There's nobody's voice I'd rather hear, no one else's  arms I'd rather have around me'. 

I only want all this if you want it too, and I don't think you do. I'm here in France, you're in England, and you've given up your passport in solidarity. There is no evidence; you hold me tight when we meet and when we part, and I do the same to you. I believe that you hold me tight because you're honest and heartfelt, and, like most of the world, you think I need holding together. You've never expressed that, but you'd be right in thinking it, because I do. I need you to hold me together, to be precise. I need your particular brand of sensible kindness, your way of doing extraordinary things that are so routine for you, your intelligence and your soft strength. I adore your slight shyness, when you feel you've spoken too long or revealed something too intimate. It seems to me that your right shoulder, your relaxed elbows and the welcoming natural tissues of your clothes are made to welcome me. You seem suddenly strong enough to encompass me, though I am far taller than you. Though, if I could speak to you today, I'd go on a walk with you. I'd draw with you and read curled up with you, I'd play music for you and I'd hold you in my arms and caress you and listen to your cadent, strong voice. If you wanted me to.

You're floating round this house.

Yet I'm no angel.

I cannot bear it. I cannot bear that he gets you- I'm not sure that I want you any more, but it pains me to think that he, the adulterer, has you. You have chosen him, to be deserving of you. It's not fair. I'm clumsy, and you don't like it. I've broken a chair, a spoon and a few wine glasses, that I replaced. I fixed the chair, though it's still cracked. I apologised and meant it. He broke your heart and buys you stupid flowers. I don't know what he says in private. Maybe he apologises and means it, but flowers are not worth that same as your heart. You nag me. I've never heard you nagging him. Why don't I deserve someone I love? Why doesn't anyone ever fall in love with me? Why does a repugnant adulterer with a stupid moustache who vacantly hums about the house get someone, and I don't? What's wrong with me?

I won't settle. You never compromise, but you are willing to compromise on this, maybe because you love him so much. I don't think I could bear that sort of compromise. I certainly couldn't do it without the odd screaming match. That is why I haven't got anyone, coupled with my own fear of trying.

I cannot bear that my role in your life is reduced to that of a spectator of your great love affair. You call me when you need help shifting the bed. I helped him shift it into place. You're renovating your room. Making it new, with him. Forgetting the hours you spent there, sad and recovering, probably. Forgetting the hours you spent with me there too. The hours he spends scraping the foam off the floor are his penance, maybe, for you. You've redone the house. There's an owl made of dough hung where the calendar used to be, with off-centre eyes and misshapen feet. It is disgusting. There's a crack in it, and I hope it falls down soon. There are flowers every day. They wilt, and he replaces them, it seems. There's croque monsieur cheese in the fridge. He comes in and changes everything. He is welcomed back into the community, though not by me.

You move all of my shoes (except for one pair) into my bathroom. You tell me that my bathroom is getting mouldy. You move my coats upstairs. You've got ten, I've got one, now, in the cupboard in the hall. You want to tidy me into a neat little corner and get me out, on occasions, to witness the both of you being together. Proof that he's here, because otherwise you'd think it was all a dream. You are so happy, now. You nag me less and laugh more, because he's here, and I can't bear that this arsehole is enough for you. More than enough. I can't bear that it's so easy for you to replace me. I am jealous and sad, and I want someone. I need to find someone of my own, because then I would be less obsessed. I accept that I cannot change your feelings, and I am sometimes even happy for you. It's just mixed with this awful stake of jealousy that runs through me every time he sings or does something.

I will not speak to him, unless under duress. Today I said, 'aspirateur' as he came down the stairs with one. We ignore each other on our own. I am not going to speak to him at all. Unless forced.