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Tuesday 200 - #65

I see her on the platform. We’re easing into the station.

Oh Jesus, no. She doesn’t know about the baby. If I stand here in the corner of the tube, maybe we’ll be invisible.

My noblest moment -- my baby’s a barricade from the batty.

We only dated a couple times. Not dates so much as quick cocktails and a bit of sex. A diversion. Cathy’d gone away, needing “space.”

We said no strings.

I hear the baby cooing behind me. Can’t turn around. She might be in the carriage. Three more stops.

We swore … no strings.

And then the calls. Texts. Voicemails. Baby I miss you and don’t you love me anymore?

There was never any, let alone more.

I tried to explain. It was going nowhere. We’d been honest up front, right?

A&E rang a few nights after, “Your girlfriend slit her wrists.”

Fucking hell.

Her mum intervened. Not the first time, apparently, she’d gone off her meds. Moving home to Coventry. Apologies and regrets.

Cathy came home and never knew.

The baby’s giggling now, bouncing on my back, clearly enthralled. One more stop.

I hear her voice. “You look like a bloke I used to know.”

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