Bobbie was still drunk. Even though the sun was up and the day was about its business. Drunk enough he could not walk unsupported. Drunk enough he could barely see. And drunk enough he was punching at the walls of Maisie’s room and saying how he wanted to kill her for what she’d done, which was only break his heart.
We went round to get him, me and Penn. Bobbie’d got things wrong before and he’d got things wrong again. He was always doing that and he was a danger to himself when he was like that, and maybe a danger to Maisie, too. So when Maisie called, we both said we’d come by and fetch him home.
Maisie who said she loved him, really she did, heart and bloody soul, but she just could not be around him no more. Not when he was drinking himself blind to everything. Not when he was weeping like a small boy one minute and then kicking at her door the next, kicking so hard he splintered the wood and broke the lock, and Maisie sitting like a coiled spring in her own open window and threatening to jump if he came one step nearer, and sure she could be true to the threat she’d made.
I like Maisie. She’s pretty enough and she’s honest. Those things do not always go together. What I didn’t like was Bobbie’s obsession with her. He said he couldn’t sleep some nights, couldn’t sleep for thinking about her curled up in her bed, and next to her the darkness laying his hands on her. The darkness he was jealous of! Jesus!
Me and Penn picked him up from Maisie’s. She looked a sight. He’d punched the pretty out of her and her cheek was bruised and she looked a little relieved to see us. And like I said, Bobbie was too drunk to walk on his own. Penn picked him up off the floor and I looked to Maisie and I gently touched the blue swelling of her cheek and I told her he was mad, and he was moon-mad and love-sick, and he’d wake after a sleep and he’d hurt inside for what he’d done to her, hurt like he’d swallowed broken glass.
‘Fuck him,’ she said. ‘And fuck you.’
We took Bobbie home, walking with him between us, carrying him. He kept saying how he was sorry and his words were all spittle and spill. And I kept saying he was fine and it was fine and Maisie was fine, too, and saying it would all look different after he’d slept.
At his place we undressed him and put him to bed. Penn kept looking at his watch and cursing under his breath, cursing against the late to work he was going to be. I told him to just go.
I watched Bobbie sleeping for the rest of the morning, his face all soft now and slack, and all the years and the worries slipped away. I touched his cheek, as I’d touched Maisie’s, touched his more gently maybe, held my palm there like a stilled caress. Then I leaned in and kissed him, tasted his lips, and maybe left the taste of mine behind. And I spoke in whispers of my love, the love he could not know of, and I spoke, too, of my heart and how it was broken every time I saw him.
Patricia Ann McNair 
Bobbie was still drunk. Even though the sun was up and the day was about its business. Drunk enough he could not walk unsupported. Drunk enough he could barely see. And drunk enough he was punching at the walls of Maisie’s room and saying how he wanted to kill her for what she’d done, which was only break his heart.
We went round to get him, me and Penn. Bobbie’d got things wrong before and he’d got things wrong again. He was always doing that and he was a danger to himself when he was like that, and maybe a danger to Maisie, too. So when Maisie called, we both said we’d come by and fetch him home.
Maisie who said she loved him, really she did, heart and bloody soul, but she just could not be around him no more. Not when he was drinking himself blind to everything. Not when he was weeping like a small boy one minute and then kicking at her door the next, kicking so hard he splintered the wood and broke the lock, and Maisie sitting like a coiled spring in her own open window and threatening to jump if he came one step nearer, and sure she could be true to the threat she’d made.
I like Maisie. She’s pretty enough and she’s honest. Those things do not always go together. What I didn’t like was Bobbie’s obsession with her. He said he couldn’t sleep some nights, couldn’t sleep for thinking about her curled up in her bed, and next to her the darkness laying his hands on her. The darkness he was jealous of! Jesus!
Me and Penn picked him up from Maisie’s. She looked a sight. He’d punched the pretty out of her and her cheek was bruised and she looked a little relieved to see us. And like I said, Bobbie was too drunk to walk on his own. Penn picked him up off the floor and I looked to Maisie and I gently touched the blue swelling of her cheek and I told her he was mad, and he was moon-mad and love-sick, and he’d wake after a sleep and he’d hurt inside for what he’d done to her, hurt like he’d swallowed broken glass.
‘Fuck him,’ she said. ‘And fuck you.’
We took Bobbie home, walking with him between us, carrying him. He kept saying how he was sorry and his words were all spittle and spill. And I kept saying he was fine and it was fine and Maisie was fine, too, and saying it would all look different after he’d slept.
At his place we undressed him and put him to bed. Penn kept looking at his watch and cursing under his breath, cursing against the late to work he was going to be. I told him to just go.
I watched Bobbie sleeping for the rest of the morning, his face all soft now and slack, and all the years and the worries slipped away. I touched his cheek, as I’d touched Maisie’s, touched his more gently maybe, held my palm there like a stilled caress. Then I leaned in and kissed him, tasted his lips, and maybe left the taste of mine behind. And I spoke in whispers of my love, the love he could not know of, and I spoke, too, of my heart and how it was broken every time I saw him.