Every so often, she feels a distinct sense of emptiness in London. It's ridiculous, of course, considering that the city seems to be alive at all hours of the day and night alike, but she can't help the feeling sometimes. It creeps up on her after an evening out with friends, returning to silent, still apartment, characterised by the light, woody scent of furniture that has never lost its newness and never become her own, by the soft scuff of her shoes and the clink of keys on the sideboard. It catches her in the mornings, in the lull between night and dawn, when she wakes without warning and stares for what always seems like an eternity through the gap in her curtains, watching the sky slowly lighten in the distance, delicate and precise.
It is a morning like this when Teagan rises, feet slipping across a cold, varnished wood floor as she slinks out of her room.
The apartment is very open and spacious, styled in a very modern way that suits her tastes, with minimal colours and a crisp, professional feel. Is it possible to balance those tastes with something more... domestic? She has lived in this apartment for nearly five years now and yet it still feels like she's moving in anew every time she walks in. There's absolutely nothing wrong with it. It has her mark, her touch, and yet at the same time it is very detached. It doesn't feel like a home, it feels temporary. Sometimes Teagan asks herself if she has always felt this way, or if it has been a more recent development. A brief glance at a picture frame situated on her bookshelf indicates that the latter is entirely likely.
Pausing by the sofa, she turns her attention to what was effectively the reason she got herself out of bed at 6:56AM on a Sunday in the first place: a navy sweater, quite big and a little old, draped across the back of the sofa. She considers it one of her best souvenirs. The fabric is not quite soft under her fingertips, more coarse from age and multiple washes, but as she pulls it over her head, drowning her figure somewhat in the process, she still thinks it to be one of the most comfortable things she has ever worn. No print, missing labels, no certainty as to where it came from.
Of course, she's terribly biased. It still has Jerry's lingering scent, and it has memories of chilly evenings where Teagan would rifle around his drawers just to find something that was suitably comfy for a bit of lounging. She would always find this sweater, and eventually, it simply found its way into her suitcase and it came back to England with her. All the maple syrup in the world couldn't beat this sweater as her favourite little bit of Canada. It immediately warms her, wrapping her up tight with sentimentality. A few months ago, she probably would have laughed at the idea of growing so attached to a piece of clothing, but now it seemed like an inevitable, natural process.
As she wanders across the living room, headed towards the full length mirrors she has always adored, her gaze briefly rests upon the telephone. There is a slight temptation to just grab it and dial, but a five hour time difference is a bit awkward when your local time is seven in the morning. She couldn't exactly blame Jerry if he was asleep by now, could she? He undoubtedly would be, at two in the morning. She tells herself she can call later. It can wait.
After a little while spent standing, Teagan's legs begin to feel sleepy again and she drops herself down onto the floor, not caring that it almost as cold as stone, crossing her legs and pulling the sleeves of the sweater over her hands.
In the November darkness, she sits surrounded by a flurry of memories and questions. The memories are welcome, but fleeting, access to her doubts. Realisation that this apartment only ever felt like a home when it had other people in it, when it had Jerry's familiar accent bouncing off the walls, and those were hardly commonplace. They are a rare and lovely treasure, just as her occasional visits to him are too. Or so she hopes, at the very least.
Teagan mournfully wonders why she never makes life easy for herself. It's all very well being in a relationship, but for God's sake, she just had to go ahead and tumble head over heels for a Canadian, of all people. She wonders, sometimes, if it would be any different if they spent all their time together. What if they didn't get along as well if they woke up facing each other every morning? The longest they'd ever spent together at once was two weeks, and it was hardly representative of an actual relationship. Teagan also wonders, on occasion, why she ends up so damn analytical about it. So far, every e-mail, every phone call, every flight has been worth it. Every return and departure has stung a little.
Does Jerry feel the same sense of absence? Teagan can't deny that from time to time, she worries a little about his power. When the future is somewhat more accessible to you than to most others, perhaps it softens the blow of parting, when you perhaps have some assurance of an impending return? She has never really asked him about it, and she's not sure if she has the courage to. She tries not to think about it, if only because she knows that eventually, it will cease to be a part of him. Eventually, they will both have to leave or retire from their respective positions - but with this comes the inevitability of your memories being altered so that you lose a significant part of yourself in the interest of national security. It's something of a vicious cycle. In order to feasibly spend more time together - God forbid, to move entirely to one specific location - it would also mean having to start again. In order to continue what they have, it means being separated by several borders and over three thousand miles.
Don't think about it, she tells herself. In two weeks, you will be at Heathrow with your heart practically leaping into your throat with excitement, and for several days you'll forget that you even thought about these things, because he'll be here and the technicalities won't matter when he smiles at you or creases his brow in that fondly exasperated way because you're being embarrassing again.
If anyone was to, for whatever reason, walk into Teagan's apartment in that very moment, they would have been under the impression that no one was home. Clean and tidy, as always, with a bed that was slept in but very much abandoned. Unwittingly, for the two and a half hours she will spend sitting by the window, Teagan will be quite invisible the entire time, where emotions and abilities bleed into one mixture of mild sadness and an unintentional manifesation of exactly how she feels. |
