tender is the night

"What's wrong?" His voice is soft over the phone.

"No. Nothing's wrong." You hesitate and then speak again. "The shower at mine is broken."

He's silent.

"The guy said he could come tomorrow."

"Jesus. That's why you called me?" His voice is harsh. "Wait till tomorrow."

"I have a job interview." You say helplessly. "At a new firm. I—please."

Arthur mutters ferociously in the background, but you can hear the telltale shuffle of his steps and the clink of his toolbox. He's at yours so fast that when you open the door, you are still in your slippers. Seeing him makes your heart jolt and stomach roil. He looks well. Despite the circles under his eyes and the overgrown stubble. He fills out his old brown jacket just the same as he did before—although his stomach looks a little softer and his eyes are bloodshot. Has he been drinking?

"Thank you." You say softly and widen the door to let him in.

Arthur toes off his boots at the front door, second nature from all the times you've shouted at him for tracking mud all over the carpets. He shrugs off his jacket and looks at you, scanning you the way you must be scanning him. His eyes flicker over the curves of your breasts under your pyjama shirt. You cross your arms over them, and he blinks, shaking his head as if to clear it.

It has been months since you have seen him, and perhaps that has dulled the harsh, sharp feeling in your sternum, the pull of your body towards him. His hair sweeps the collar of his flannel shirt. It's new, blue.

"D'you want a coffee?" An olive branch.

Arthur nods, briefly, setting the box of tools down next to his socked feet.

"Nice place you got here." His voice is without judgement.

You'd let him keep the house you'd bought together two years ago. Why foist him upon John and Abigail when you are more than capable of getting your own place? Besides, you never liked the place. It's too dated, the floral wallpaper too gaudy, the red door like a stain of blood over the whitewashed plaster of the walls. The windchimes he'd made you hung over it. This suits you, sleek, modern. A marble kitchen island and a king bed all to yourself.

Arthur clears his throat, breaking you out of the memories of the house. Out of memories of the four-poster bed and the colourful rugs you'd picked out together.

"What's the issue? With the shower?"

"The water just leaks through the head." You turn on your heel and lead him through.

The place looks too small around him, the way he shrugs his shoulders and ducks his head to move through the doorways. You lead him to the washroom and slide open the glass shower.

"It leakin' anywhere else?"

"Sometimes through the tile. It just stopped working this morning."

"Alright." He kneels on the shower bathroom floor, removing the tools from his box. You stand there awkwardly and then remember—coffee. You can make coffee. Even though 6 pm is too late for coffee.

The kitchen is bright white, and the cabinets are sleek, fitted neatly into the walls, their handles tucked discreetly beneath them. You find mugs. Arthur likes it plain, black. What a waste of the fancy coffee machine you bought. Instead of using it, you reach into the cupboard for the bottle of instant coffee you'd bought last week, unthinkingly. Even though you only really use the machine. The mugs are hot, and you pour milk and sugar into yours, a half cup, and fill his to the brim with acrid black coffee. You approach the bathroom and set the mug down beside his knee. Sitting on the closed toilet lid, you cross your legs and take a sip of your coffee.

"Congratulations on the interview." He says, without looking at you.

"It's just a formality. They approached me."

"Thought you liked your firm."

" I'd be stupid not to take it. They're offering double what I make now."

"Well," Arthur says shortly. "You always had better ideas."

You bite back a "hell is that supposed to mean, prick?"

"You're looking well." You say pointedly.

"Been workin', " he mutters. "Got a dog. She keeps me busy."

You'd begged him for a puppy. A German Shepherd. You scowl into your mug.

"Don't look like that. Found her in the gutter." Arthur's voice is wry as he steps back to switch on the showerhead, testing the water. It trickles miserably. "Think it's a burst pipe."

"How long will it take to fix?"

"A couple of hours. Maybe."

Jesus. A couple of hours with him still in your space, and you'll peel your skin off.

"Don't gotta babysit me. Ain't gonna steal your fancy soaps."

You flinch at the jibe. The arch in his brow tells you exactly what he's referring to. That night at your parents' where your mother had stashed every valuable into the house safe upon hearing that your ex-prisoner husband was visiting. She'd made up the couch for him to sleep on, and you'd woken at midnight to coax him into your childhood twin bed. The two of you had curled up together, surrounded by the plush guardians of your childhood, giggling like teenagers.

"How have you been?" He says, looking a little guilty at the no-doubt crestfallen look on your face. "Apart from the job."

"Fine." Lonely. "Good."

"Your hair looks nice." He murmurs, "Different."

"Highlights." Your skin feels hot.

Then you see it, as he moves his hand to test the tap. The gleam on his left hand, the wide gold band unmistakable in the dim lights of the bathroom. His wedding ring. You look down at your own hand, the strip of tan already faded from your finger.

"You're still wearing it." You are unable to keep your surprise out of your voice. Arthur freezes.

"I figured we ain't divorced yet." And he begins to work again, avoiding your gaze.

"Did you get what my lawyer sent you?"

"I did." His voice is rough. "What's mine is mine, what's yours is yours."

"Yeah. Is that okay?"

"'Course. Ain't like I had much to give you in the first place."

"Should look at selling the house too." You say quietly."It's in both of our names."

"Okay."

"Will you be okay?"

"I won't be on the streets. Don't you worry."

"Arthur." You say softly.

"Don't "Arthur" me." He sounds irritable. "I know. It's fine. We can do whatever you like."

His tone makes you shudder. Suddenly, you want to cry. You want to sink to the bathroom floor and press your face into his shirt and cry.

"Okay." You whisper, and his shoulders slump. Silently, you lift yourself and walk out of the bathroom, ignoring his muttered curse.

Arthur comes out, a half hour later. You are curled on the modern leather couch, and you must brace your feet to keep from slipping off.

"S'done. Should be dry in time for tomorrow morning."

"How much do I owe you?"

"Nothin'. On the house."

"I've wasted your evening."

"Weren't a waste." Arthur hesitates, then lowers "Was good to see you."

Pulling his jacket off the rack, he shrugs it over his shoulders. The ring catches the light as he scrubs a hand over his beard.

"If I'm not paying you—there's beer in the fridge."

"Don't need you to pay me with a six-pack either." His tone is flat, but his eyes glint with humour.

"No. No, I meant, if you wanted a drink. For old time's sake."

"I wouldn't call two years old times."

"Jesus. Do you want the beer or not?"

Hesitating a second, he shrugs his jacket back off and nods.

"Glass or bottle?" You ask, digging around in your fridge.

"Bottle." He scoffs.

You open two bottles and pass one to him as he sits down on your stupid leather couch. You sit beside him, an arm's length between you. You are close enough to relearn the creases next to his eyes and the smattering of freckles on his nose. The hard set of his jaw and his pollen-gold eyelashes.

"How are John and Abigail?"

"Good. She's gonna have another baby. Girl."

"She wanted one, didn't she?"

"Yeah. John's real pleased too—even if he won't say it."

"And Jack?"

"He ain't so pleased, but he'll come 'round."

Jack, the sensitive, sometimes acidic boy you had grown so very fond of. With his books and plans to be a lawyer, and all those questions he asks you, answers you'd try to make interesting.

"He misses you," Arthur says, gulping his beer. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows it.

"I miss him." You say softly. "Hold on."

You set your beer on the table and dive into the cupboard under the bookshelf.

"I bought him this for his birthday. Before—"Before you'd served Arthur the papers. Can't live like this, won't live like this. Your cigarette butts are everywhere, and your life is a mess. I hate Dutch and the hold he's got on you. I don't love you.

The book is still wrapped with "To: Jack, From: Auntie" written in your scrawl on the front.

"It's about famous criminal trials."

"He'll like that."

"They'll be okay with it being from me?"

"'Course they will. All Abigail does is scold me for losin' you."

"I think we should talk about splitting assets too. The paintings and dishware and—"

"Take it." He says simply. "I got no use for it."

"But half of it is legally yours," You insist. "You can sell it or—"

"I don't want it." Arthur says, his voice firm.

"There's no reason to make this difficult."

"As opposed to you? You've made it real easy." The harshness makes you narrow your eyes, straighten your posture.

"Oh, God. My mother was right."

"Aw, was she?" He swallows another sip of beer. "Always liked her. Even when she said I was gonna leave you pregnant and broke."

"I'm neither of those things." You snap. "Good thing we didn't have kids, what a fucking mess that would have been."

"Yeah. 'Cause who'd want me as the father to their kids?" He spits.

"Aren't you glad it didn't come to that?"

His jaw tics, and he says nothing.

"Arthur." You turn your voice placating, and you wish. You wish it were nine months ago and you could smooth your hand over his brow and plaster the punched-in walls with a kiss. Reaching out, you lay a hand on his forearm. "Let's just do this my way. Yeah? The easy way."

Arthur looks at you for the first time since he stepped foot in your new life. His eyes are just as you remember them. Only, they are resigned. None of the hot light of battle that used to enter them—the thrill of a skirmish.

"Alright, sweetheart." He breathes. "The easy way."

He touches your hand where it rests on his arm, and you almost withdraw it.

Arthur's eyes follow the line of your bare shoulder, where the shirt slips down, and the curve of your thigh as you hike one foot onto the couch. His eyes flicker to your hand, your thumb caressing his weathered skin.

Arthur lifts his arm, and as natural as breathing, as unthinking as walking, you scoot down the couch and curl into his side. His arms go around you immediately, his breath stirring your hair. Placing his hand on your bare calf, he pulls it forward so you are half in his lap, your head tucked against his collarbone. Reaching for his hand, you bring it up to look at the ring.

"Should take it off." You murmur into his shoulder.

"We ain't divorced yet." Arthur's voice is firm. You prop yourself up a little, staring at long memorised scars on his chin,

"No." Your mouth brushes one, his stubble grazing you. "No, we aren't."

Arthur's hand smooths up your thigh, the tips of his fingers brushing where it meets your ass, under your sleep shorts. The calloused pads of his fingers brushing your soft skin there.

Then, your neck is bent back over his arm, and he is kissing you with all the feverish intensity of the long separation. Your fingers come to brush the soft hair falling over his cheek and ears, to thumb the feathery silk of his thick eyebrows and to fit your nose against the notch in his. You bring his trembling hand up, beneath your shirt to curve at your breast. The cool metal of the ring makes you shudder as he nudges your jaw to kiss your neck.

"Arthur." You gasp as his teeth graze your fluttering pulse. His hand squeezes at your breast, so hard that you are sure it will burst like overripe fruit in the crushing force of his palm. Your breathy whine slips out, and he gentles. Murmuring, he kisses gently at your cheek, your eyes.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to." His thumb strokes against the side of it, circling the hardened nipple. "Want you so bad. I missed you fuckin' much."

"Touch me." You gasp, guiding his hand down into your shorts and making him feel the leaking mess of your cunt. He shuts his eyes and groans into your neck. The two of you find yourselves horizontal on the couch, your foot braced against the arm to keep from sliding off.

Arthur buries his face in the junction of your shoulder, pressing the heel of his palm into your sopping cunt, soaking the gusset of your shorts.

"Will you let me?"

"Let you?" You shove at his flannel, undoing the buttons with clumsy fingers, only to be met with the barrier of his T-shirt underneath it.

"Eat your cunt." He groans. "Please. I missed it so much."

You are already shoving the shorts down, and he is pulling his t-shirt over his blonde-streaked head to slide onto his knees next to the couch.

"Arthur." You whisper as he drags you forward so his breath hits your fluttering cunt.

"Shh. Darlin'. M'gonna eat you out now." Arthur looks up at you, pupils blown wide and his hair falling into his eyes. He pushes it away impatiently. "Gonna make you cry."

"Okay." You whimper. "Okay, Arthur."

Bending his head, he breathes hot air into the soft parting of your cunt. Carefully, he reached between your legs and parted your cunt down the centre. You whine, arching off the couch and into his mouth. He buries his face between your legs, groaning loudly, his beard scrapes against your thighs and down the sensitive centre. Pushing at his head, you mumble for him to be gentle, but he does not take heed of this.

"She missed me, didn't she?" Showing you mercy for one second, he pulls his face away, panting. Arthur runs the tip of his finger down the fluttering red centre of your cunt, fluid streaming from it. "Look at how wet you are."

"I missed you." You mumble, head lolling back on the couch.

"I'll make it all better", He mutters, feverish with want. Arthur takes your ankles and draws them over his shoulders, the muscles in his freckled back rippling with the movement. "I'll fix it."

Bending his head to you again, he drags his tongue down your centre,e and you clutch his hair, twisting it around your fingers, nails scratching his scalp. He grunts, and the harsh noise of his zipper cuts through the fog in your mind.

"Fuck me." You whine as he closes one hand around the meat of your thigh and grazes his teeth against your clit.

"No", Arthur presses a kiss to the bone of your hip" No, you don't want that."

"I want it." You mumble. "I want it so bad."

"You don't." His voice is firm; he presses a big hand to your belly, pushing you back down. "Just lonely. You don't want me. Not really."

Arthur releases your calf and reaches down, palming the heavy bulge in his jeans.

"Arthur, please." Whining, you press your palm to your hot face. "You're so hard. Please."

He shakes his head, strands of hair falling into his eyes and buries his face between your legs again, licking and sucking till you cry out his name, again and again. When you lift your head, he leans back on his ankles at your feet. Slowly, he leans forward and presses the softest of kisses to the round of your kneecap.

"Please." You whisper, and clutching at his shoulder, drag him up from the rug. Arthur draws close to you, his muscles straining. Like a magnet, always pulled north. You lie back on the couch, and he straddles your legs. Fingers trembling, you catch the hem of your shirt and pull it up to your belly. His eyes go dark, and he leans down to press a kiss to every inch of skin revealed. When you finally reach your breasts, you tuck the hem under your chin. Arthur takes one nipple into his mouth and sucks hard.

"Missed these too." He slurs. "Thought about 'em all the time. Thought about doin' this," He bites one gently, making you squirm. "Thought about fucking them too."

Hooking one leg around his hip, he sinks into you. Grinding the bulge of his cock against your thigh. The denim chafes against your overwrought pussy, and he grunts as you reach between your bodies to palm it.

"I got off to it." His mumbles. "You left your underwear in the laundry, and I jerked off to you. I missed you so much."

"Please fuck me." You look up at his flushed back, cupping him in your hand.

"No." He repeats, voice cracking. "You'll regret it."

"I won't. I promise I won't."

"You'll hate me." He groans.

Arthur has an iron will, stronger than your own. You learned this long ago.

"Let me touch it." You whisper. "And then—you can touch me."

Arthur stills, stomach pressed to yours. It quivers with his breaths.

"Just to make it stop." You take your hand and stroke his face, his hair. "Then we can—it'll be a clean break."

"A clean break," Arthur murmurs, and with one hand, he cradles your jaw. Nodding, you suck his thumb into your mouth.

The carousel of your mind is spinning at a dangerous speed. Arthur furrows his brow. He gives in, fumbling with the button of his jeans over the give of his belly. He's so hard, painfully so. You can tell by the way he squeezes a hand around himself, fluid leaking from the tip in a pearly drip. You replace his hand with yours, and Arthur flattens his palm over your belly before returning the favour. The hard flick of his thumb against your clit makes you wince. You stroke upwards, and his eyes scrunch.

Arthur dips his index finger into your cunt and the passage is slick, eased by his mouth. `You hold him in your hand, stroking rhythmically and relearning the veins and ridges of him. Your mouth waters. How good he felt inside of you, all the way up to your ribs. A home, fucked for himself over and over in those tumultuous two years. This was always good, though. A shared language. Any hurt could be soothed with just a touch. Until it could not, until your life together had haemorrhaged and you could not resurrect it.

"Wait." He mutters distantly as you shove your ruined panties aside, guiding the tip of him to rub against you. "Wait—I. We said—"

"I know. I know." Your voice comes out high. "Just rubbing. Don't go inside."

Arthur is kissing you now, his maw opened over yours and the tip of his cock prodding the slick entrance of your cunt. You buck your hips so he sinks in, parting a little, and his teeth gnash.

"I'm gonna come." He grunts. "I'm sorry. I can't stop."

Arthur comes, hot spurts against the soft wet of your cunt. He groans miserably, and his head drops to your shoulder. Blindly, you reach up to tangle your fingers in his damp hair. To stroke his shoulders, relaxed in pleasure. It only lasts a moment. You are left on the couch, dazed. Arthur stands on your carpet, comes on his belly, and his beard is damp with your spit and slick. Turning his head away from you, he tucks himself back into his jeans. You press your cheek to the throw pillow and watch him. The fuzz of hair on his stomach and chest and the way his muscles ripple when he pulls the undershirt over his head. Buttoning his flannel, he looks at you.