It was everything I wanted.
You could have driven straight home.
We pulled over instead.
And moved in after a bit, after talking.
The estate agent sort of smiled.
I think he remembered me from school
but I didn’t remember him. He’d changed.
He said something when he handed me
the keys. I said what I felt.
That we wanted to be with each other.
Later, in our careers, we looked back.
There was that, in hindsight, awful moment
when you said, well, I had to make a choice.
This was after talking, after a bit.
You dealt the knives into the drawer.
Sleeping with me was like having sex
with a cutlery service.
Listen, you weren’t going anywhere.
But I had this bright future mapped out.
So why did I look so miserable?
Did I want a different one?
Will Eaves is a novelist, essayist and poet. His most recent collection is “Invasion of the Polyhedrons” (CB Editions)
[See also: Faith is a half-formed thing]
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This article appears in the 07 May 2025 issue of the New Statesman, The Peace Delusion