The moon is bright tonight.Its pale beams pick out the contours of your face: the soft curve of your chin, the gentle bump of your lips, the hillock of your nose. I am a fitful sleeper, I like to watch you on nights like this, when you are in a deep sleep, still wrapped in the warmth of our recent lovemaking. As you dream the foolish dreams of a contented lover: full of memories of the evening that has just past and anticipation of the nights that are yet to come. You turn over, and sigh, a deep, satisfied sigh. I am everything you have ever wanted. I will fulfil your every need.
You don’t know it yet, but I am trouble, with a capital “T”. Your friends sense it, as friends always do – the iceberg that lurks beneath my still, calm waters. But by the time they get close enough to expose the danger you are in, it will be too late to send up flares. By then I will have run you aground, your lower decks crumpled, as you begin to sink into my icy depths. They will be desperate in their bids to save you, but their pathetic attempts will come to nothing. Life jackets, rubber rings and tiny boats will flounder in the black waters and be consumed by the waves. For you will give them up, each and everyone of them. You will reject their years of love and loyalty in favour of your mistaken belief in me – your inability to see that I am trouble with a capital “T”.
I like watching your face at night time. I like to see you still and peaceful, completely oblivious that I have the power to choose both the time and manner of your ending. Sometimes, on a particularly insomniac night, I wonder if I should pity you. But even as your steady breaths form tiny clouds in the cold airof your unheated flat, I know that pity is impossible. All I have ever had to offer anyone is ice and fog – why should you be any different? The moon sinks across the horizon, drowning in the morning clouds that turn black, purple and pale blue. From the east, the first orange rays of sun drift across your face, warming you awake. You smile and murmur as I lean over to kiss you. Your waking grin is as generous as it is foolish.
“Happy New Year,” you say.
“Happy New Year. It’s going to be a good one.”
You beam back, content in the happiness that is to come this year, enjoying the sight of me getting dressed. I smile back with all the warmth that you deserve.
I am trouble, with a capital “T”. You just don’t know it yet.