This was pure bliss. The smell of salty popcorn swept my nostrils closely followed by its greasy hotdog counterpart. I could feel the fibres of Michael’s tweed jacket brushing past my neck as he locked his arm around me. My view of the pitch was blocked by the commotion of halftime; spectators standing up, awkwardly clambering over one another to get to the end of the rows and rejoin loved ones after visits to the toilet or the snack stand. The most striking feature of the pitch from what I could see was the grass. It was so artificial it almost glowed, an envious, fertile green. The white lines drawn along the pitch were still blinding white even after the numerous pairs of feet that had assaulted them during the game, just minutes before. I have to admit, I know nothing about baseball, but you’re only in New York once and Michael loves it so much. He had told me months ago on our third date of his admiration for the Yankees, but watching him tentatively rise to his feet as the players approached home base and then fall, defeated, back to his seat as the ball landed in the opposing team’s hand, was a passion I had never seen before. I remembered that date so well.

Our two meetings prior had been brief, coffee and cake; daytime encounters, but this time he took me to dinner. We were back home in Edinburgh and he had booked a table in a swanky Italian in the city centre. We arrived just before the dinner rush at 5 and were thrown out at closing at 11. The restaurant itself was beautiful. Floor to ceiling windows covered by burnt orange drapes which managed to manipulate the dingy street lights outside into a glowing atmospheric shadow cast across the tables. I was pulled out of my daydream by a deep, American accent shouting something over the tannoy. Michael tightened his grip around me and pointed towards the four giant screens hanging over the pitch. The same faceless American voice announced that “this was one for the couples.” 

The four screens sprung into action. They all displayed a view of the crowd and a border of red hearts.

“It’s kiss cam time!” announced the nasal American voice. I turned to Michael.

“What’s a kiss cam?”

“Weird American thing. They put a camera on couples and you have to kiss for everyone to

watch.” he replied as he removed his arm from around me. My face dropped.

“What?” Raising his palms up as if I was pointing a weapon at him. “If they put us on camera it

gets broadcast all over the world, people lose their jobs. It’s embarrassing.” 

I couldn’t help but be disheartened. He’d always said he was private, but I thought this trip would be different. I watched as cameras rose from the ground and panned to couples embracing and waving. It seemed innocent.

The camera was scanning our section now. Everyone was waving and shouting to family and friends watching at home. We must look so miserable. The camera rested on an elderly couple 2 rows in front of us and the man took the woman’s hand and softly kissed her knuckles. The crowd rejoiced in a harmonious ‘awwwwww’. It was moving closer to us now. Michael kept his arms firmly crossed and stared at his phone. 

“Who cares?!” I shouted at him and began manically waving and smiling at the camera.

 

*

I carefully dragged the door shut behind me, and released the handle from my clutch. I checked my phone for the time: 2:39am. The last time I looked, it was 10:30. That was the longest Ava had ever taken to settle. I trod delicately across the landing, remembering from previous sleepless nights which bits creaked. I reached the stairs and yanked the baby monitor from its hold. Sitting on the top stair, I let my head rest between legs and felt the texture of the carpet on my bare feet. My eyelids felt like two kettlebells hanging over my eyes, begging to close. I tried to remember why I was here, but it was so hard these days. With Michael in New York for work, I felt so overwhelmed. I let my eyelids fall, for a brief moment. I remembered sitting on the toilet in our old flat, tears falling from my eyes and hands shaking. I heard a faint knock on the door.

“Coming!” I said hastily and wiped the tears from my eyes with the sleeve of my jumper. I grabbed the test from the windowsill and unlocked the door with my other hand, still shaking like a drum skin. I was greeted with Michael’s tall frame hanging over me, as I stared at the floor. I handed him the test without removing my eyes from the laminate flooring. He said nothing.

“What are we going to do? We can’t afford-”. He stopped me.

“We’ll figure it out,” he said softly and pulled me towards him, resting his arms around my shoulders. I can’t remember how long we stood there for, days might have passed, but it didn’t matter, we had all the time in the world, and we had each other.

I pulled my eyes open and checked the time again. 3:54am. I was wide awake now. My feet seemed to carry me downstairs and onto the couch without any approval from my mind. I fumbled through the cushions for the remote and froze on a wet patch on the arm of the couch, not daring to ask myself how it got there. I switched the TV on and looked around the room while it loaded. What once had been a pristine example of Michael’s taste for interior design, decorated with plant pots and co-ordinating candles, photo frames and throw blankets, was now overrun with half finished baby bottles, gifted baby grows and nappies. I turned back to the TV that was now open at the menu and began surfing through endless repeats of sitcoms and teleshopping before reaching the sports page.

“The Yankees are playing incredibly well today, we’ll be back in 20 folks, see you then!” Blared a sports reporter from the small screen in the top right corner.

I clicked on the channel showing the game. It was halftime. Damnit. I could’ve impressed Michael by texting him commentary. The announcer’s voice always ran straight through me. I could barely work out what he was saying, his accent was so thick. Ah, it was kiss cam. I always loved studying the different couples’ reactions and guessing how long they would last. A young couple popped up on the screen. The woman had long brown hair scraped back into a neat ponytail and the man had a blonde afro, hanging over his head like guilt. They awkwardly pecked and avoided looking at the camera. I’ll give it two more months.

The camera panned upwards to a young blonde woman waving and laughing while her partner seemed to be sinking into his tweed coat. The camera stopped. The man began to emerge from the collar of his coat as he realised the camera had stopped. I froze. I felt as if I could feel every piece of my heart shatter. His dark hair highlighted by the grey strands poking out at the front, his once strong jawline, worn and tired but still prominent, the freckle next to his eyebrow. It was Micheal. Unmistakably Micheal. His oval head held in the hands of a woman I had never seen before. His lips touching hers. Their shared laughter as she pulled away. The crowd cheered for them. She beamed as she held his gaze, innocent of the heartache he would cause.

 

By TILLY O’DONNELL