Leaves clog the gutters like chips of paint: bright yellow and orange flecks flickering across the road, vibrant with fresh rain.

~

I get a notification from Okcupid. The preview message is something basic: "Hey, I like that movie too. Maybe you'd like this link. Perhaps you--"

The preview message cuts off after a set amount of characters, so I log in to my tumbleweed laden account and scan the message.

It ends with: "Hi. I'm Brian."

My blood slows, runs cold. The tiny profile picture is cropped, barely recognisable, but I know who it is instantly.

Brian. It's Brian.

~

The rain is heavy, so heavy. My GPS directs me onto the main highway heading into the city.

I take the on ramp slowly, plagued with mental images of my little Wallace skidding sideways on the turn, turning us both into a smear of silver and red on the concrete dividers.

Cars roar past me, doing well over the speed limit on the mirror slick road. They kick up a blinding white froth, and blaze through it, weaving in and out of each other like sharks.

My hands sit so deliberately loose on the wheel, that my shoulders are tense iron bars.

~

At work, the build team composed entirely of women. Such fresh air after my experiences in England.

We mesh, perfectly. When someone get frustrated, gets moody or angry, we talk about it. Everyone always has pads or tampons or pain killers. The boss is kind, attentive, professional.

"Awful lot of women in the shop," one of the (male) day calls says, joking but not joking. "Maybe I should file a grievance with the union."

If looks could kill, he would have been a silent smear on the concrete floor.

~

I click on his profile, skim it briefly.

We have so much in common. His face is as familiar as the scars on the back of my hand. I know every line, every pock mark.

I can still hear his voice, telling me he loved me. I can still taste his anger, making my teeth ache like ozone in the air. His kisses, joking at first, but then not joking. Not gentle.

My hands, using more force than I had ever had to, with anyone, pushing him away.

His anger flaring again. The thin night air, so quiet in the wee hours, without so much as the horn from a taxi. My bank account, so spare, not enough to get me home until morning.

The sagging springs of his couch under me. Laying there, waiting for his sounds of sleep before I dared drift off.

How close did I come to being raped that night?

Only he knows.

I don't respond to his message. I block him in every way I can.

~

The message unsettles me for days. This is not the first time he has tried to reestablish contact, and it probably won't be the last.

I write a letter to my friend, rolling anxiety and a thousand what-ifs.

FUCK Brian. the letter back reads. Fuck him right to hell.

.

Rosie.

Before&After