It Happened Slowly

It happened slowly.

They met when they were young. It took him six months to gather up the courage to ask her to dinner. She went bright red, but said yes, a joyful smile across her face. She talked about that night all week. We laughed and asked him what had taken so long.

It happened slowly.

They were happy. Every day was spent in a bubble, the impenetrable glowing surface sealing their happiness away from the contaminants of reality. They had nothing in common, were nothing alike. But that didn’t matter. Every day was spent as if in sunshine; their eyes only for one another. They were innocent then – we all were.

It happened slowly.

We got older. He started to snap at her. Never could he do wrong; each imagined slight or fault somehow became her fault. She rolled her eyes with a laugh and waved him away, joking that he always exaggerated. He laughed back too and seemingly, all was forgiven. Life continued on.

It happened slowly.

We left our schoolyard days behind us. They argued a lot. At first they hid it from us, not wanting to darken the atmosphere. But soon we were left in the centre. Tiny instances once covered by laughter grew larger; forced out into the open for all to see. She would never cry, instead walking away. He went after her always. He didn’t believe in ‘going to bed angry’.

It happened slowly.

We turned eighteen. She stopped laughing. Sat beside him at the table, he asked her where she was going each time she got up. 'For a cigarette', she said. 'Don’t be long', he replied. We noticed that he paid for dinner, her credit card in his hand. She told us she was working two jobs. He told us nobody was hiring.

It happened slowly.

We grew up. Never did we see one without the other. She would ask his permission to go out. He would ask why she wanted to go and with whom she was going. On the occasions he said she could go, he would 'accompany' her. Always would he want to know when she did things and why. Her world became the question ‘Why?’.

It happened slowly.

The world of nine-to-five came knocking. The bags under her eyes grew larger; she smiled and brushed it off. Sometimes she would look to him before speaking; would it anger him? Was it acceptable? It turned out that no matter what she said, it was wrong. The arguments would begin anew.

It happened slowly.

We received their wedding invitations. They didn’t stop smiling the entire day; she decked in flowing white and he clean-shaven. Their day was filled with laughter and music. We noticed the dark bags beneath her eyes even through the make-up and heard talk that she had paid for their big day. We had too much to drink at the reception.

It happened slowly.

We didn’t see them for a long time. Having grown up, life came knocking to the door with demands of rent payment and red letters from the council. The rest of us stayed in touch as best we could. Offers were extended to them too; birthdays, weekend benders, trips to the beach. But rarely did we see them. When we did, she said little, her eyes rarely leaving the floor. He had put on a lot of weight. She drank more often than she used to.

It happened slowly.

They moved away. She was always working. Red letters kept coming through the door, brandished by the looming shapes of men in suits. He was 'between jobs'. One weekend when we stayed with them, we were woken by hysterical shrieking. He shuffled through from the bedroom with sleep in his eyes and apologised; she screamed in her sleep sometimes.

It happened slowly.

We'd all changed. She started to wear hats a lot. We didn’t know why until one day it blew off in the wind; her hair was falling out. She bundled herself up in thick woollen jumpers even in the height of summer. Never did she take them off, though we saw the sweat trickling down her neck, caked in make-up. She said she was cold. He started to talk about legacy – about kids. She did not say whether she wanted children or not.

It happened suddenly.

We hadn't seen them for months. She called us in tears. We heard him breaking things in the background before the line went dead. We drove to the house to find it empty. Their car was gone as well. Days passed before we received another call - it wasn’t from her. We were asked if we could confirm their license plate. We did. Later, the police told us there was nothing we could have done.

Things passed by slowly.

We wore black the next time we were all together again. They were buried on the same day, far apart from one another. People said there had been hardly anything left to bury after the fire. His eulogy told of what he once was; her coffin was laden with flowers. We didn’t go to his graveside. We blamed ourselves, the guilt eating away at us as we struggled to sleep. We couldn't believe that they were gone. We hadn't seen it coming.

Because it had happened slowly.