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His Favourite Photograph
by
Mick O’Connor

They make love reluctantly; he conscious of his duty, lack of desire camouflaged by the tools of experience. When they finish it is with irritation rather than contentment.

Later, much later, as she sleeps beside him he lies absorbed in thought. Her breath whistles in his ear, seemingly sucked from her by the darkness that presses upon them. She is beautiful. He thinks of her perfect features, her body that causes other men to stare with greedy appreciation. He has what others envy but she means nothing to him. He turns away, re-establishing the chasm that yawns between them. She repels him. His decision is made. Tomorrow he will end the charade.

They do not speak at breakfast. Jack is awkwardly conscious of the need to placate them. His face scrunches as he treads a path between one parent’s plate clattering anger and the others glacial silences. At one point the child sits on his lap, blonde head burrowing into his chest. He removes him wordlessly. A gentle pat on the back steers him towards his mother.

The mother and child leave the house. She will drive to the crèche on her way to work. There is a last glance from the child and the father waves back, his arm weighing a ton. He will not be going into work today.

From within his pocket he extracts the sheet of paper. He already has the note written. It is the coward’s way out, leaving, but he is long past expecting bravery from himself. Is it possible that the breakdown of a marriage can be set out in three lines? His words seem foolish now, ill-chosen and repetitive despite their brevity. He should simply have written that it is all her fault.

He licks the envelope and seals it. Why the effort? He does not know. It is placed on the mantelpiece. His is a clumsy touch. He does not realise the photograph is falling until the glass shatters at his feet.

He kneels to survey the damage. It is his favourite photograph. He holds it to the light. It was taken on Jack’s third birthday. Mother and child smile at the unseen photographer. Those were happier times, yet all he can think of as he clutches the image between his fingers is that even then she was betraying him.

Trying to put it behind him has not worked. He had thought that somehow he was bigger than this, a modern man with all the sensibilities that supposedly entailed. Yet the only word that holds resonance for him is a medieval term remembered from schooldays - cuckold. He has enjoyed the delusion that their relationship could survive the knocks of life. He has been wrong.

He places the photograph beside his note. He gazes upon it, fingers gently brushing the surface clear of fragments, and then pauses to rub a knuckle over his son’s image. It is a perfect picture of his family.

He is not in it.

© 2007 Mick O’Connor

Mick O’Connor, from Wexford.
Has never been published with the exception of writer’s group publications in his own locality.
" Short stories are an enjoyable break from forlorn efforts to write a book," he said.

For lively club discussion on writing see here.