Free State We're In by Adele Parks

be a question, but Jeff interprets it as such and chooses to be explicit.
    â€˜Well, older and so available.’ I leap out of bed and start to struggle into my dress. At the same time I hold up my hand, trying to stop him from saying anything more. I do not want to hear what else he has to say. It’s all too much already. Too painful. But Jeff isn’t looking at me. He’s staring at his reflection, running his fingers through his hair, and so he carries on. ‘I mean, you came on to me pretty strong last night. I didn’t do the chasing. You practically threw your sister in a cab. She wanted you to go home with her but you said you’d make your own way back. I distinctly remember you saying you were a big girl and you could look after yourself.’
    â€˜I lied,’ I say with a sigh.
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜I don’t think I can look after myself. I lied,’ I admit a little louder. He has no idea how momentous this confession is; how sickening this thought.
    â€˜Well,
I
didn’t lie to
you
,’ he adds self-righteously. ‘You never asked if I was married. I sort of thought you must have known but just didn’t care. You kind of had a predatory look about you.’
    I am tangled in my dress. It is tight-fitting and I fight to find the sleeves. I ought to have stepped into it, but in my haste I yanked it over my head. Angrily I turn to face Jeff, but I can’t see him because my head has not yet emerged through the neck hole, and as the dress has stuck on my hips, my muff is exposed. Even though I’m fastidious about waxing, this is undoubtedly a humiliating stance.
    â€˜Predatory, as in cougar?’ I demand as I finally pull the dress down over my thighs and pop my head out of the neck hole.
    â€˜I didn’t say that, it’s not a nice word.’
    I wonder whether he thinks ‘fun slut’ is a compliment, but I am sick of being on the back foot. I decide to go in for the attack. ‘I can think of a few other ugly words that might apply to our situation. Adulterer, fornicator, bastard.’
    â€˜Hey, there is no need for that. I’m not going to fight with you. I don’t even know you. We had a great time, Jill, but—’
    â€˜Jo.’
    â€˜Sorry?’
    â€˜My name is … Oh, never mind.’ The fight in me vanishes. There’s no point. No point at all. I begin to collect up my belongings – tights, panties, handbag and jacket – strewn like scars on the show home’s bedroom carpet. I want to get out of here. I want to get as far away as possible from the scene of the crime, before we are caught and further exposed. This is humiliating enough; it doesn’t need to be heartbreaking too.
    â€˜I pity your wife,’ I mutter, as I stand in the doorway.
    â€˜My wife has nothing to do with you. She would not want your pity,’ replies Jeff. He’s ironing the duvet, as I have refused to help.
    â€˜Maybe not, but she has it anyhow.’

7
Eddie
    I open my eyes. I’m not dead yet, then. Strangely, I feel a bit disappointed that this is the case and am shocked by my own disappointment. I don’t long for death or anything oddly morbid like that, but I can’t be arsed to fight it either. This indifference is depressing. Indifference to my own death is the most clear and compelling evidence, if more evidence were needed, as to how completely and utterly I’ve screwed up my life.
    It isn’t so much that I am despairing – nothing so dramatic; I am, frankly, bored. Bored of being sick. Bored of the pain, the discomfort, the long days. And before the cancer? Well, I was bored then too, for quite some time. Getting older hasn’t suited me. I was good at being young. I had a penchant for irresponsibility, wildness and a predilection for living in the moment, carefree and careless. It’s tempting to imagine it would be better just getting it over with now.
    But then