Moving on

When my keys clanged against the door of my one-bedroom flat, a sudden realization hit me. A soon as the door opened, I turned to Tristan.

“It’s time to move out of here”, I said.

There was such an air of finality in my voice that my husband-to-be blinked.

“We don’t have to leave because we are getting married, Frances. There was no requirement in my proposal, and you know that.”

I shook my head vehemently, kicking my shoes off in the entrance.

“It’s not pressure. Or guilt, or anything like this. I just feel like our time here must come to a close. And we must get closer to your family.”

Tristan shed his jacket on the sofa and sat to untie his shoes; the shine was all gone now, dust flecked over the black leather and laces alike. I could see if he was still unsure of my reasoning and, being the level headed man he was, tried to pry a little further to understand it.

“How about yours ?”, he asked.