Dancing on the head of a pin

As always, as soon as Coppelia opened the door to his knock at 10am, he threw his arms around her, lifting her off the floor. To share private and intimate space so early in the day meant so much to each of them. This was the closest they could be, to waking in the same bed. Lying in his arms, talking, making love...then in an hour he was waving to her from his car window as he drove away from a car park in that same small town, a town whose parks, streets and pavements continued to be part of the canvas over which so much of their picture was being painted. The same trees, the same buildings, the same grey slabs under her feet. People passing, shops opening and closing. The bus arriving.That rhythm of connecting, letting go, connecting, letting go. Here again, gone again, here again. Did any of it ever really change? So much had happened, so much HAD changed - and yet, that day, somehow it seemed as if nothing ever had. Like she had been dancing on the head of a pin.

Living with that empty space...

What's in a word? He still made Coppelia feel as he always had. And it seemed to her that whatever deep delight their relationship had brought him in the past, it still held for him. His utter joy at being with her again last week needed no special word to define it.
Three days ago they met as usual after his course, which resumed this week after half-term.
As had happened many times before, following a long afternoon in a hotel, Coppelia remained in the hotel overnight and he visited her there again the next morning. There they stayed together until they had to leave the room, and he drove her back to the small town near her home.
These pages have told before, how Coppelia struggled at his departure following these hotel afternoons. How the empty space beside her in the night would loom in the darkness as a bittersweet reality. The day had been hot and bright. She watched him from the window, his jacket over his shoulder, briefcase in hand. Still striding briskly even in the heat. Waving, as he always did, from his car window as he pulled away. Oh, to have him stay! How she needed him to stay. I won't cry, she told herself. I must replace wishing with gratitude. I will see him in the morning! Coppelia must accept it - she has to learn how to live alongside that empty space...

Close enough to love...

Coppelia's heart was near to bursting with joy, the day she was with him again after that long absence...but her joy was not just because they were at last together. No - something else gave her far greater comfort: he told her how, three days before, it had suddenly hit him. He had missed her terribly, and had ached to see her again. Well, it was your own doing! she laughed. Yes, and I won't make that mistake again, he replied " to be apart for so long was just too much."

They left the train at Kings Cross and began walking to the British Museum, to see the exhibition The Remaking of Iran. He was holding her hand so tightly, as if he were afraid she might disappear in the London crowds. As soon as they turned into a quiet alley he stopped, pressed her hard against him, and kissed her long and tenderly.

So, he no longer loved her.

To Coppelia, whatever it was he felt for her,

it was close enough to love...