It was meant to be quick. Just five minutes while the lentils bubbled and Sara was in the lounge with her headphones on doing that whispery yoga thing that makes me feel like I’m married to a fern. I said I was taking the bins out. Took them too, for realism. That’s the bit that annoys me. I actually took the bins. Lifted, wheeled, muttered something about fruit flies like I cared. Cigarette in sock, lighter in pocket. I’d rehearsed the whole thing like it was a play. Even checked the wind. That’s where I’m at. A forty-something man crouching behind a brown bin in Ibiza trying to dodge smoke drift like I’m living with snipers.
I’d just got the thing lit when I felt it. Not a noise. Just that quiet tap of being watched. I turned and there he was. Leo. No phone, no earbuds. Just standing there. His face was blank in that way teenagers do when they don’t know whether to laugh, tell someone, or walk off and never mention it. I panicked and shoved the cig behind my back like we were in a cartoon. He didn’t react. Just looked at me and said, “Really?” and walked away.
It wasn’t loud. Wasn’t angry. Just flat. Like he was tired of me in a way I didn’t know he could be. That’s what stayed. Not shame, not guilt. Just the realisation that I’d crossed into that version of adulthood where your kids know exactly who you are and stop being surprised.
I didn’t follow him. I stood there like a prat, next to someone’s cracked fondue set and an old mop, still holding the cigarette like it meant something. I tried another drag. It tasted stale. Flat. Like the kind of smoke you exhale when you don’t want to be there. I dropped it in the leaves. Didn’t even stub it out. Just left it and stood like I was waiting for a punishment that wasn’t coming.
Later we did normal things. Dinner. Bath time. Something about Spanish verbs. Sara didn’t say a word, which either means Leo didn’t tell her or she’s saving it. He barely looked at me. Not in a dramatic way. Just like I was background. Like a tap that always drips and no one’s fixing.
I haven’t smoked since. That was three days ago. Not because of strength or clarity or anything they put on leaflets. Just because I can’t stop seeing his face when I reach for the drawer. It’s not even judgement. It’s worse. It’s disappointment that already happened.
I don’t know how long it’ll last. Maybe a week. Maybe until the next disaster. But for now, I’m not behind the bins. I’m here. Typing. Trying. Ignoring the drawer. If I start vaping, he’ll kill me. And honestly, I think he’d be right to.