#1: A late Valentine's Day
Trixie’s kitchen had never been this messy before. Not even the time she was convinced she could host a bonafide, American-style “friendsgiving” dinner, and had ended up sliming the cracked-tile walls with mushed sweet potatoes. (It was a whole forgot-to-put-the-lid-on-the-blender situation, OK?) Looking around now, however – at the sprinkle-studded floor, the oil-splattered walls and a rather unpleasant green ooze spreading over the countertop of the island bench – Trixie definitely thought this was a peak Dirty Girl moment.
Living with an anal-retentive nutjob, as Trixie did, had its advantages. The fridge was always fully stocked and meticulously organised; she was never in danger of getting a staph infection, because no germ could survive in a house that was so thoroughly bleach-cleaned twice a week; and Stef, Trixie’s high-functioning housemate and childhood best friend, had an expansive and well-catalogued wardrobe, which she always let Trixie raid (provided she return each item, dry-cleaned, to its correct spot in the closet). But she knew Stef would not be impressed with the kitchen’s current state – no matter how hard Trixie tried to clean it. There was a “Trixie Clean” and a “Stef Clean”, and right now the kitchen needed about three Stef Cleans to get it back to its earlier condition.
But the smells coming from the oven, and from the large pot simmering away on the stovetop, did soothe Trixie’s anxieties about the state of her shared kitchen just a little. She might be chaotic, but Trixie could cook; and tonight, she had outdone herself. The was just one final element she knew would tie the whole thing together.
“What’s tricks, Trix?”
Trixie’s father had always answered the phone to her this way. And, well before mobiles became part of regular daily function, when Trixie would return home from school to their dim Leichhardt flat, the sound of her school bag hitting lino would prompt him to call out, “What’s tricks, Trix?”.
“What’s that dressing you use on green beans and broccoli, Dad?”
“‘Hi Dad, how are you this evening?’ ‘Ah, Beatrix! My eldest child. Lovely to hear from you. I’m great, thanks for asking.”
“Dad . . .”
“‘I thought I’d check on you after another busy week.’ ‘Well, isn’t that kind of you, Trixie? I’m flattered.’”
Trixie sighed into the phone. “Hi, Dad.”
“Hello, love.”
“How are you, then?”
“Good! Nothing much happening up here.”
“That so.” Trixie rolled her eyes at her own reflection in the window. Outside, the sun was beginning to dip behind the surrounding apartment buildings, which were clustered together in such a way that their own Kingsville flat was always a little cold and far too shadowy. It was getting late – too late for Trixie to joke with her father on the phone.
“Sandra’s been out the back all day, pulling weeds. And, well, you know how I feel about her doing that, her knees being what they are, but I think—”
“Dad. Dad?”
“Trix?”
“I really will call you back tomorrow and talk to you about all of this, OK? But right now, I’m kind of under the pump.”
“Oh.”
“So. The dressing?”
“Oh! Yeah.”
Ten minutes later the “goddess” dressing was in the fridge, covered in clingfilm, and Trixie was modelling outfits in front of her laptop’s webcam, for a captive audience.
“That one’s too slutty,” Kit called through their phone receiver.
Trixie dropped the spangly dress and gave her webcam a glare. “Excuse me, nothing I own is ‘slutty’.”
“Maybe she wants slutty?” Amal suggested, voice muffled by the dip she was noisily consuming on her end.
“I don’t own any ‘slutty’ clothes!” Trixie snapped.
“Nothing wrong with a slutty outfit, Trix,” Jin said. In his own video, he was lounging on his bed and picking at ingrown beard hairs with a pair of tweezers. He looked up briefly to give a wave, suggesting Trixie should try the dress again.
Reluctantly, Trixie held the dress against her torso once more. She glanced in the mirror. Perhaps it was slutty. It was short, and Trixie was aware her fleshy thighs would be on full display.
“I think it’s great,” Amal insisted. “Kit doesn’t know shit.”
“I know more than you,” Kit shot back. “I am obviously the most fashionable person in this chat.”
“Ha!” Amal threw a half-chewed carrot stick at her laptop screen, and her image wobbled a little.
“I think it’s nice.”
David’s low voice, softer than the rest, was often lost among the intensity of the rest of the group, but Trixie heard him. “You reckon?”
“Sure.” He didn’t have his video turned on – never did, when he was at work – but Trixie felt reassured by his quiet confidence.
“OK. This one, then.”
“So, wait, David is suddenly the style icon in residence?” Kit cried incredulously.
“Oh, shut up,” Jin said. To Trixie, he cooed, “You’ll look fantastic, love. Have a good one.”
“Cheers, gang. I’d better run, I’m—”
“Late,” they all chorused together.
“We know,” David said, chuckling.
Kit kissed at the screen. “Good luck!” they said.
Trixie closed her laptop and grabbed her towel, heading for a quick shower and a shave. She had given herself precious little time for the usual primping. There was, however, enough of a window to indulge in what she considered a necessary bit of pre-date personal vanity – smooth legs.
If Trixie was perpetually late (and well-known for it), then Lukas was always on time. Tonight, though, it was half an hour after their agreed meeting time before Trixie even heard from him. The text was short and pissy: Late. There soon.
Trixie bristled, and poured herself an anxiety-soothing vodka soda, squeezing the lime in with excessive force. Lukas was the sort of man who never understood how tone transmitted through a text message. When shooting off a quick text, Trixie would always be sure to add some ‘x’s, so the recipient would know she was only being brief because of the time crunch. Lukas was not a man for ‘x’s. He was, however, a man who favoured punctual meetings, and Trixie had to physically stop herself from looking at the time by hiding her mobile in the bread bin.
Forty-five minutes late, and wearing an expression that matched his earlier text message, Lukas trudged through the front door of Trixie’s apartment. He pressed his suit jacket and briefcase into her waiting arms. “I know,” he sighed. “I know I’m late. Fucking shitter of a day, Trix.”
He didn’t kiss her, just gave her shoulder a squeeze and shuffled into the kitchen to pull a beer from the fridge. Jacket off, she could see his shirt was crinkled from a day of pushing his sleeves up and down his arms, and his hair was standing on end, like it often did when he ran his hands through it. He hadn’t shaved for a couple of days, so a dark shadow hung around the blue-white skin on his chin and cheeks.
“Um, babe?” Trixie said, watching him from the threshold of the kitchen as he twisted the top off the beer and tossed it at the kitchen sink. “I actually thought we might, well . . .”
Trixie trailed off, then nodded at the ice bucket on the countertop, which contained a rather expensive bottle of prosecco, and a pair of roses.
“Oh. Oh!” Lukas frowned at the bucket, then at Trixie. “Sorry.”
“It’s OK!” she replied brightly. She moved to take the beer from him, but he kept a tight hold on it. Instead, she stretched up to give him an awkward kiss on the cheek. “Um, Happy Valentine’s Day!”
“Trix—”
“I know, I know!” she said, waving at him. “I know it was on Tuesday. But you had to cancel because of work. And I just thought, Who says we have to celebrate on the actual day, you know?”
“Yeah.” Lukas was still frowning at the ice bucket. “You didn’t, like, do anything else?”
Trixie grinned at him. “Welllllll . . .” She rummaged for a brown paper bag and a handmade card, presenting them with a flourish.
Lukas gave her a strange look, almost pained.
“It’s not much, I promise. I didn’t even spend any money! But I had to.” She pressed the bag and the card to his chest, forcing him to accept them.
He took the card and the bag, looking at them both like he’d never been given a gift in his life.
“I just thought you deserved a gift,” Trixie went on. “You’ve been working so hard, and life’s been so hard.”
“Thanks,” he muttered. He took them to the dining table, which was dressed for dinner in crisp red and white table linen, with Trixie’s best glasses and plates atop them. He looked at the table, then down at the present. “Trix—”
“Open it!” Trixie said. She pulled the bottle out of the ice bucket and popped it open. The noise seemed to rattle through Lukas like a gunshot. “I’ll pour while you do.”
As Trixie filled the glasses, Lukas opened the card, reading through it with glazed eyes, and then pulled a small navy box out of the bag. As he removed the lid, Trixie placed his fizzing glass in front of him. “You know how my brother’s been making those little wooden things?” she said. “Well, I got him to make you these. They’re cufflinks. For work. Simple, but nice – or I think so, anyway.”
“Oh.”
“They’re really quite good, I think. I mean he’s just started, and he’s just eighteen and he’s not asking for any pay or anything and—”
“They’re lovely, Trix.” Lukas mustered a smile. “Thanks.”
“You’re so welcome. Here’s to four more fabulous years, hey?” She held up her glass. “Cheers!”
Lukas’s glass stayed on the table. His hands stayed in his lap, clutching the box with the wooden cufflinks inside. He just stared at Trixie.
“What?” Trixie’s glass was still hanging in the air when she realised something – not something, everything – was wrong.
“Trixie—”
“Lukas, don’t.”
“Trix, I have to—”
“You don’t! Don’t.”
“I do.”
“Please,” Trixie whispered. “Please, don’t.”
Lukas sighed. He dropped the box into his lap, leaned over and pulled Trixie’s glass out of her hand, setting it on the table. Then he took her hand in his, which felt clammy. “We’ve got to break up, Trixie.”
“Why?”
“I – It’s not right. It’s not working.”
“How is it not working?”
Lukas shrugged. “You know.”
He didn’t say anything more, and Trixie didn’t know, but at the same time she knew she wasn’t allowed to ask any more. Then she’d be one of those people – those undignified people who lost the plot when their partners broke up with them. Instead, she took a deep breath, and pulled her hand out of his grip. “Fine,” she snapped. “Whatever.”
“Whatever?”
“Yeah, whatever. Whatever you want, Lukas.” Trixie stood up, and picked up their prosecco glasses, carrying them over to the kitchen bench. “You want to be broken up? Okay! Fine!”
“Let’s talk—”
“You don’t want to talk! You don’t want to explain it. That’s fine!” She refused to turn around, to face him. She was breathing carefully – in through her nose and out through her mouth, like her stepmother, Sandra, had taught her – to stop from hyperventilating.
“Oh, Trix,” Lukas moaned.
“Bit of a shit time to do it. Like, I made this whole meal, and I bought all this crap for you.”
“Look, I—”
“Wait.” Trixie rounded on him, aware tears were pricking her eyes. “Is this why you cancelled on Tuesday?”
Lukas looked down at his lap. He mumbled, “I didn’t want you to get dumped on Valentine’s Day.”
“Well!” Trixie cried, practically ultrasonic. “Thank you so much for considering my feelings, Lukas. Really!”
Trixie picked up Lukas’s glass, and his beer bottle, and marched over to the sink. She upturned both, and the liquid splashed and swirled down the drain.
“I don’t know what to do here, Trix,” said Lukas. Trixie could see, his reflection illuminated in the window, that he was still sitting at the table.
“You could not be here,” Trixie replied bluntly. “That’d help.”
She heard him move the contents of his lap to the table and stand up. But instead of leaving, he shuffled over to stand behind her, putting his large hands on her hips, whispering into her ear. “I can’t just leave you like this. We can’t leave it like this.”
“Lukas,” Trixie pleaded. She felt, almost uncontrollably, that her body was melting back into his. Maybe she was leaning against him, or perhaps he was pulling her into his arms – she wasn’t sure.
Next thing, his cheek was against hers, lips a breath away. “I want to help you, I do.”
“I just – it’s so much right now,” she whispered back.
“Maybe I could – I don’t know,” he replied gently. “Maybe I could take some of the food away with me in a container, so it’s a bit less overwhelming.”
Trixie froze. Then she shoved back with her hips, pushing him roughly away from her. He staggered back, rubbing his crotch.
“Ah, shit. Trix! That fucken hurt.”
“Maybe you could ‘take some food with you’! I cook us Valentine’s dinner; you dump me. And you want me to wrap you up a take-away?”
“I’ll bring back the Tupperware, Trixie, fuck.”
“It’s not about the Tupperware!”
Lukas threw up his hands dramatically and retreated from Trixie, like she was a dangerous criminal wielding a blade. “I can’t talk to you like this. I’ll give you a ring tomorrow.”
“Please, do not bother,” Trixie sneered.
“Fine!” he called over his shoulder. As he passed the dining table, he reached over and collected his gift and card.
“Oh, no!” Trixie cried. “No.”
“What?”
“You don’t get to take the fucking present if you break up with the Valentine. No way.”
“Trix—”
“Put it down.”
“This is stupid. What are you even going to do with a pair of cufflinks? You work in a coffee shop.”
“I work in a bookshop, Lukas. A bookshop. We’re a bookshop that serves coffee. For fuck’s sake, we’ve been together for four years, and you’re still telling people I work in a coffee shop?” She glared at him. He glared back, still clutching the gift. Her instinct had been right; he loved the cufflinks. Well, too bad. “Leave. The. Gift.”
He put the card and the box back on the table, reluctantly. Trixie marched forward, picked them both up and put the box in the pocket of her dress. The dress, which was very tight and had an absurdly small pocket, made the whole exercise ridiculous. Lukas smiled briefly. Trixie reddened.
“All yours, then,” he sneered. “Enjoy finding an occasion to wear those. And to display a card that reads ‘I Love You, Lukas’ on the cover.”
“Oh!” Trixie said, in mock surprise, surveying her handmade card. It depicted a tree, the branches of which were dropping tiny, heart-shaped leaves. Now, it looked foolish and juvenile. “Were you going to display this at home, Lukas?”
Lukas shrugged. “Dunno. Maybe.”
Trixie nodded, smiling sweetly. Then she walked to the bin and lifted the lid with the toe of her spangly heeled shoe. As Luke watched, scowling, she scrunched the card in her fist and dropped it into the open bin. The clang of the lid closing echoed around a silent, tense kitchen.
Perhaps, Trixie thought, she would come to think of it as the real end to their relationship: the lid closing on a kitchen bin. For Lukas made no further commentary, verbal or otherwise, as he left the apartment. He didn’t even slam the door, which, in retrospect, Trixie considered was an unreasonably respectful – almost annoying – act.
Once Trixie was sure he’d heard his Volvo pull out of their flat’s dedicated parking space in the car park, she pulled out her phone and brought up a chat window.
@gang: who wants to eat an entire Valentines meal like right now?????
The Broken-Heart Brigade is released via weekly e-newsletter instalments through Substack. It is supported by Matilda’s generous subscribers, Melbourne City of Literature and the City of Melbourne.
The Broken-Heart Brigade is made in Naarm (Melbourne), on stolen Wurundjeri land that was never ceded. Matilda pays respect to the rightful Aboriginal owners of the land on which she lives and works, and hopes the readers of her writing do too.