“Like a Suitcase with a Broken Handle…”
“Tom, don’t come over anymore. Alright?” I said calmly.
“What d’you mean? Not today?” Tom didn’t get it.
…It was early morning, and Tom was already in the hallway, rushing off to work.
“No, not at all. Ever,” I clarified.
“Hmm… What’s happened, Diana? Look, I’ll call you later,” Tom gave me a quick peck on the cheek and dashed off. I shut the door behind him and let out a sigh of relief.
…I’d been wrestling with those words for ages. They didn’t come easy. Tom had been like family.
Last night, I’d been wild, relentless—my way of saying goodbye. Tom hadn’t clocked a thing.
He’d just grinned and said, “Diana! Blimey, you’re on fire tonight. Absolute goddess! Stay like this, yeah? Love you, darling.”
…We’d been family friends for years—me, my ex-husband Rob, Tom, and his wife Squirrel (that’s what he called his Bella, affectionately).
Back then, life was all laughter, mess, and recklessness. Truth be told, I’d always fancied Tom a bit. If I bought a new dress, shoes, a handbag, I’d wonder—would Tom like it? Bella was my best mate.
We’d been through so much together, too much to put into words. I knew Tom had a soft spot for me, but we kept our distance.
At gatherings, he’d hug me tight and whisper, “Dee, I’ve missed you.”
Honestly, I reckon when families are close like that, there’s always *something* simmering—blokes fancying their mate’s wife, or the other way around. People are weak for temptation. Chances are, someone’s got it bad for someone else. That’s why these friendships don’t last. Not really. I don’t buy men and women being *just* friends. Odds are, they’ve been together, are together, or will be. It’s like lighting a match next to a haystack—sooner or later, everything goes up in flames. Maybe there are exceptions. Rare ones.
My Rob used to lick his lips whenever Squirrel walked in. I’d catch him at it and give him a slap on the back of the head.
He’d just laugh it off. “Come off it, Dee! We’re mates!”
Then he’d add, grinning, “Only the dead don’t sin.”
I never doubted Bella. She’d never cross that line. But Rob? He had a habit of picking fruit from other people’s orchards. That’s why, after twenty years, we split. He married one of those “fruits” when she started prattling on about giving him an heir. By then, our kids had grown and left home. I packed Rob’s suitcase and wished him luck in his new life.
“Right then, there’s lovely female solitude for you,” I sulked at first.
Tom and Squirrel dropped by often, tiptoeing around me like I was some wounded bird. Truth is, I wasn’t suffering *that* much—though I did start hating holidays. Nothing worse than pacing your flat, alone, with no one to bicker with, cry to, or just talk rubbish to.
…Three years later, Tom lost Squirrel. You can’t pray or cross yourself away from death. She was ill for a year, and before she went, she practically *handed* Tom to me.
Her exact words: “Diana, look after him. I don’t want some other woman getting her claws in. He’s always fancied you—I could tell. Make a life together.”
Tom grieved properly, got her a granite headstone, planted flowers. Then, bit by bit, he started coming round. I helped however I could—warmth, care, love. We had memories to laugh over, things to mourn.
…We’d been through thick and thin, shared joy and grief. Tom and I got closer than ever.
But eventually? I started feeling *trapped*. Everything about him grated on me—the way he talked (like a blind man describing a sunset), his fussiness over food, his boring jokes. However long the moon shines, it’s still not the sun. Squirrel must’ve *really* loved him to put up with his nonsense.
I began questioning everything. Maybe I’d just got used to being alone, no extra baggage. All my old fondness for Tom evaporated. And once he started driving me *proper* mad, I figured it was time to cut loose.
One last night—make it unforgettable—then end it.
As for Tom? He adored me, convinced we were perfect. No matter how sharp I got, he’d just flash this *infuriating* innocent smile, kiss my hand, never raise his voice.
He’d say, soft as anything, “Dee, don’t be cross. I’ll sort it. You’re *not* getting rid of me. Who’s gonna love you like I do?”
And… God, he had a point. Every time, my resolve melted like a wax candle.
…Tom rang me on his lunch break.
“Diana! What’s wrong? You alright?” He sounded panicked.
“I’m fine. Come home early. I… I’ve missed you,” I mumbled, guilt twisting my gut.
*Ah well*, I thought. *You’re like a suitcase with a broken handle—can’t chuck you out, can’t carry you forever.*
Our paths were tangled now. What else could I do? Abandon him? He’d be lost without me. Poor sod.
