It’s still dark. She hears the late calling of an owl as she stirs. The nature reserve guide is already up and making breakfast. She can smell the coffee he’s left at her bedside. The last morning is always hard. He’ll beg her to stay.
As usual, she leaves. As usual, she sees the light in his eyes fade.
Back home, the man she made her promises to calls out, ‘Hi! Good trip?’
‘Saw a Cetti’s warbler. Easy to hear them, but spotting one….’
She can’t remember when they stopped greeting each other with a kiss. His gaze is fixed on a screen. She knows he’s not listening even though he’s muted the sound in her honour. He doesn’t understand her fascination for creeping up on deer, trying not to make them go skittering off at the slightest sound; her excitement at glimpsing the sleek curve of a seal or an otter before it glides back down into water; her moment of triumph, when she spots a bittern hiding in its reedy camouflage; or best of all, her wonder at standing still in woodland at night, listening for owls, while trying to identify which unseen creatures are scurrying, rustling, and snuffling. She’s tried often enough to explain, what this all means to her, but he rolls his eyes and mutters, ‘Wildlife, right?’ He seems incredulous and resentful that something without a price-tag can move and excite her so.
When she goes away, he doesn’t complain or try to stop her: he knows his meals are in the freezer. ‘We all need time and space to ourselves,’ he says. She knows what he does with the time and space he allows himself. The hairs she finds on his pullovers are no longer from her salt-and-pepper bob.
She frowns as she pads out into the garden, whispering to herself, ‘What am I doing here?’
Her eye is drawn to the blossom on the blackthorn sapling, a gift from the guide. ‘Next spring, the flowers will come first,’ he’d said, ‘the leaves will follow. Then listen out and watch, as most male creatures start to sing, dance, offer food, whatever it takes to attract a female.’
She loves him not only for taking her into the world of non-human life, teaching her to recognise bird calls and songs, the different bark of a fox from a muntjac, and the frenetic alarm call of a squirrel, but also because, when she speaks to him, he observes her, just as he does these creatures, listening and reflecting, taking it all in, as if he is the one learning.
She glances back towards the house. Those promises were longer ago than she can bear to think. He calls out, ‘When you go shopping, we need milk. What you left’s gone off!’
She grimaces, thinking promises should have a use-by date too. Noticing one tiny, burgeoning blackthorn leaf, she hesitates no more than a heartbeat. ‘I’ll go now!’
Her luggage is still in the car. If she puts her foot down, she’ll be back in time to join the guide and go into the woods, as night falls and the owls start their calls.
She won’t make any promises. But this time, she’ll stay.
Author: Ruth is a retired languages teacher. Her short fiction has been published in Scribble, Writers' Forum, the Parracombe Prize Anthology 2022, and WestWord. She has won prizes and been shortlisted in competitions, including Ilkley, Winchester, Flash 500, Henshaw, Frome and Yeovil. She lives in Essex and loves walking and wildlife.