The Last Letter from Your Lover

she woke he had already gone and Mrs Cordoza was knocking softly on her door. She opened her eyes, feeling an ominous ache as she moved her head.
    ‘Madam? Would you like me to bring you a cup of coffee?’
    ‘That would be very kind. Thank you,’ she croaked.
    She pushed herself up slowly, squinting into the bright light. It was a quarter to ten. Outside, she could hear a car engine, the dull scrape of someone clearing snow from the pavement and sparrows squabbling in the trees. The clothes that had been strewn across the bedroom the previous evening had somehow been tidied away. She lay flat against the pillows, letting the night’s events pierce her consciousness.
    He had turned away from her when she had returned to the bed, his broad, strong back an unbridgeable barrier. She had felt relief, but something more perplexing too. Now a melancholic weariness stole over her. I’ll have to do better, she thought. I’ll stop talking about my feelings. I’ll be nicer to him. I’ll be generous. I hurt him last night, and that was what did it.
    Do try not to dwell on matters.
    Mrs Cordoza knocked. She had brought up coffee and two thin slices of toast on a tray. ‘I thought you might be hungry.’
    ‘Oh, you’re kind. I’m sorry. I should have been up hours ago.’
    ‘I’ll put it here.’ She laid it carefully on the bedspread, then picked up the coffee cup and placed it on Jennifer’s bedside table.
    ‘I’ll stay downstairs for now so that I don’t disturb you.’ She glanced briefly at Jennifer’s bare arm, the scar vivid in the bright light, and averted her gaze.
    She left the room as Jennifer caught sight of the book, the romantic novel she had meant to read or give away. She would have her coffee first, she thought, and take it downstairs afterwards. It would be good to restore things between herself and Mrs Cordoza after their odd exchange the previous evening.
    Jennifer sipped her coffee and picked up the paperback, flicking through its pages. This morning she could barely see straight enough to read. A sheet of paper dropped out of it. Jennifer laid the book on the bedside table and picked it up. She unfolded it slowly, and began to read.
    Dearest,
    I couldn’t make you listen, when you left in such a hurry, but I was not rejecting you. You were so far from the truth I can hardly bear it.
    Here is the truth: you are not the first married woman I have made love to. You know my personal circumstances and, to be frank, these relationships, such as they are, have suited me. I did not want to be close to anyone. When we first met, I chose to think you would be no different.
    But when you arrived at my room on Saturday, you looked so wonderful in your dress. And then you asked me to unfasten that button at your neck. And as my fingers met your skin I realised in that moment that to make love to you would be a disaster for both of us. You, dearest girl, have no idea of how you would feel to be so duplicitous. You are an honest, delightful creature. Even if you do not feel it now, there is pleasure to be had from being a decent person. I do not want to be the man responsible for making you someone less than that.
    And me? I knew in the moment you looked up at me that if we did this I would be lost. I would not be able to put you aside, as I had with the others. I would not be able to nod agreeably to Laurence as we passed each other in some restaurant. I would never be satisfied with just a part of you. I had been fooling myself to think otherwise. It was for that reason, darling girl, that I redid that wretched button at your neck. And for that reason I have lain awake for the last two nights, hating myself for the one decent thing I have ever done.
    Forgive me.
    B
    Jennifer sat in her bed, staring at the one word that had leapt out at her. Laurence.
    Laurence.
    Which could mean only one thing.
    The letter was addressed to her.

I don’t want you to feel bad, but I feel very ashamed about what happened between us. It shouldn’t have. To be fair on everyone involved, I don’t think we should see each other again.
    (married) Male to Female, via email

5
    Anthony O’Hare woke up in Brazzaville. He stared at the fan that rotated lazily above his head, dimly aware of the sunlight slicing through the shutters, and wondered, briefly, if this time he was going to die. His head was trapped in a vice, and arrows shot from temple to temple. His kidneys felt as if someone had hammered them enthusiastically