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It's been a month. A whole month of dancing around the phone, waiting for a call that will never come, wanting to speak to the one person he knows won't want to talk. He's been drinking lately - not the fun kind, no. The recycle bin has stood lonely outside for the past 2 weeks, filled past the brim with clattering green bottles. It's too full, the binman said, we aren't allowed to take it. Hence why the kitchen floor is beginning to flood with a sea of dyed glass, and why Paul has worn a bandage on his sole for a few days after tripping over one of his many burdens.
He just got back from the corner shop with a generic plastic bag hanging on his wrist, leaving polymer creases on his pale skin. He places the bag on the table with a dull thud, the cans sitting flat on the counter through the thin material. He took a pot out of the sink, not bothering to clean it properly, just wiping it with a damp cloth before placing it straight on the stove. He turns on the overhead lamp, making it the only light source in the room.
He grabs a tin of soup out of the bag and cranks it open with a rusted can-opener, turning it until the metal lid flicks up, ready to be disposed of. He pulls back the flap, cutting his finger in the process, but he presses the wound against his teeth, pouring the processed liquid into the pot anyway. It'll scab over quickly, if not then... oh well. He shrugs to himself whilst lighting the gas - click, click, click...
He's stood there almost completely idle, staring without seeing at the simmering broth in front of him, stirring languidly like it was second nature. That's all it's been for a while now: ready meals, alcohol, loneliness. He knows it's all his fault. After all, he's the one who decided to leave it all behind and pursue something new. But now he lingers on the thought: was it the right decision?
His train of thought comes to a halt as the soup begins to burn and he rushes to turn off the hob. He haphazardly pours the contents into a bowl, grabs a spoon and carries his meal to his bedroom. He remembers that there was once a time where his double bed would lay two people. Two who would talk and laugh and hold eachother endlessly. Paul can sometimes still smell the stale perfume on his pillows.
He sits on the bed, leaning back against the headboard, one ankle crossed over the other. The warm bowl rests on his lap as he turns on the TV. He stares blankly at the Star Trek re-runs. Bruce used to talk about that show when they first met; it was nice to hear him talk about it, but Paul never really understood the Sci-Fi hype. He sighs and reaches to the bedside table where an unopened bottle of red sits, collecting dust. It was gifted to him for his birthday. He pops the cork and takes a swig straight from the bottle.
A couple hours have passed and the bottle is 90% gone, the bowl is discarded on the floor, and the TV is still droning in the background. Paul has been mumbling to himself for the past half an hour, cursing himself for his conscious decisions. It's unknown to him what time it even is, but it's dark regardless. He remembers something he watched in the pub yesterday. Bruce had done an interview and it was displayed on the old TV, muted to allow football chants and the clacking of billiards, but Paul swore that he could make out every word he was saying through the barrier of silence. He knew him that well. Now he doesn't know him at all.
He glances at the phone again. It's been taunting him since the day of the split and the fact that Bruce's number was practically engraved in his head after the years of late night calls and expensive phone bills which certainly didn't help his urges.
With a disgruntled huff he grabs the telephone from the bedside table and drops it onto the mattress in front of him. He begins to dial the sacred number, unsteady fingers guiding the digits. But he stops, heart beating fast. He can't do this. Bruce is probably in bed with his cat having a nice time. What if he disturbs his peace? At the same time, why should he care? He's caused enough damage; a spontaneous phone call would hardly add to the growing pile of regrets. So, he gulps down the last of the wine and dials again.
1... 2... 3 rings. Still no answer. 7... 8... click.
Paul's eyes widen at the sound, mouth slightly agape as his brain forgets every word he wanted to say.
"Hello? Is someone there?" The voice is warm and familiar, but hits Paul like a slap in the face. "Hello?"
"Hi, Bruce." Paul barely manages to choke out.
"Oh... Paul. It's you." He sounds unpleasantly surprised.
"Yeah. Sorry it's late." Paul mumbles, instantly regretting his decision.
"No, It's fine, it's only..." In the midst of the pause, Paul can hear the radio on the other side playing Beat Surrender. "Half twelve."
"Sorry I- I didn't realise." He tries to fake a laugh but it just comes out so awkward.
"Why are you calling?" Bruce says, deadpan. Of course, he's not happy.
"I don't know really... I just... I've been drinking-"
"I can tell." Bruce sighs. "Your words are slurred. How much have you had?"
"A few bottles of lager this morning and a bottle of wine just now... it's been piling up." A newfound disappointment grows within himself.
"And here I thought you'd be having the time of your life." I moment of silence. "Y'know with your new music and all that."
Paul pinches the bridge of his nose. "It's been quite the opposite, actually. It's been miserable."
It's almost comforting for Bruce, knowing that after all the commotion, Paul isn't doing too great.
"We never got the chance to properly speak after the tour ended. You left without word like you'd just been given a free holiday." Bruce jokes but there's no humour behind it.
"I couldn't wait. But... I do wonder how it would've gone if I stayed."
"You're bound to. I do too." Bruce says, deadpan.
"Yeah."
Silence.
"Paul?"
"Yes?"
"Do you regret it?"
"I..." He swallows. He misses what he had before... but this is what he wanted. This is what he asked for.
"Goodbye, Paul." Bruce sighs, holding back tears, and puts the phone down.
The line goes quiet. Paul sits there with the phone to his ear, frozen like a statue. His eyes well up with long awaited tears and he chokes. He cries hard, coughing and spluttering into old tissues and clinging at his own hair. He throws the wine bottle at the wall. It shatters, leaving leftover droplets to seep into the carpet.
He knew damn well that a phone call wouldn't go well. After all, he ruined everything. Not only did he announce his leave from The Jam and make them endure another album recording and a huge tour, but he also broke up with his first true love. Nobody ever made him feel the way Bruce did. He'll never be able to experience all the things he loved again. Those late nights where they'd sneak off from the pub to the tour bus just to drunkenly kiss and laugh in eachother's arms. Sneaking out of bed after everyone has fallen asleep to kiss eachother goodnight. Sharing a fag and having deep talks on the front steps of Paul's house while he lays his head on Bruce's shoulder. It'll never happen again. Will he ever even speak to Bruce again?
But this is what he wanted.