The Dancer Stands Still

"Turns out there's no choreography for watching your husband climb out a window."

The light outside had dimmed into that soft, hazy glow just before night falls, the sky streaked with the last remnants of pink and gold—the kind of Broken Hill sunset that used to stop me mid-step when I was teaching late classes at the studio, that moment when the harsh outback seemed to soften into something almost tender. Now I barely registered it. Inside, the air in the kitchen felt oppressive, thick with the weight of unsaid things, pressing down on my shoulders like hands trying to push me into the floor.

I stood at the sink, staring out at the barren garden, my hands gripping the edge of the counter so tightly my knuckles ached. The ceramic was cool beneath my palms, smooth and unyielding—a small anchor in a world that felt like it was tilting sideways. Mack and Rose were at Mum and Dad's for the school holidays, and without their chatter filling the house, the silence was deafening.

It wasn't peaceful—far from it. It was the kind of quiet that prickled at the back of your neck, that amplified every sigh, every rustle of paper, every tiny sound until it felt like the whole house was holding its breath. The kind of silence that made you want to scream just to break it, to prove you still existed.

Paul was at the kitchen table, hunched over a pile of unopened post like it was the most fascinating thing in the world. Bills, probably. Catalogues. The usual detritus of a life we'd built together that now felt like it belonged to strangers. The sight of him—so detached, so utterly uninterested in anything—set my teeth on edge. His shoulders were curved inward, defensive, his whole body language screaming don't talk to me even before I'd opened my mouth.

It had been like this for days. Weeks, really. The distance between us wasn't new, but tonight it felt like an unbridgeable chasm, like we were standing on opposite sides of a canyon shouting words that got lost in the wind before they could reach the other person.

"What were you thinking, Paul?" I said finally, breaking the silence. My voice came out sharper than I intended, but I didn't try to soften it. I was past soft. Past gentle. Past the careful choreography I'd perfected over the years, the dance teacher's diplomacy I used with difficult students and their more difficult parents.

He didn't even look up. Just kept flipping through the letters as if I hadn't spoken, as if my voice was just another background noise like the hum of the refrigerator or the distant sound of a car passing on the street outside. "What are you on about now?" he muttered, his tone flat, dismissive.

The casualness of it made something snap inside me. That dismissive tone, that now, like I was always going on about something, always making problems where none existed. Like I was the difficult one. I turned to face him properly, my chest tight with frustration, my hands curling into fists at my sides.

"Don't you dare act like I'm just having a go at you for no reason. You've been moping around this house like some ghost, snapping at me, snapping at the kids. And now, when we finally have some time to talk, you sit there like you're a million miles away."

Paul finally looked up, his expression blank in that infuriating way of his—that carefully constructed neutrality that he wore like armour. I'd seen it countless times before, that shuttering of whatever he actually felt, that retreat into himself where I couldn't follow. "I'm not moping, Claire," he said. "I'm just tired. Work's been rough, and—"

"And what?" I interrupted, stepping closer to the table. The kitchen suddenly felt too small, the walls pressing in. "That's your excuse for everything these days. 'Work's been rough.' Do you think my life isn't rough, Paul? Running the dance school, keeping the house together, raising the kids—"

"They're at your parents' house right now," he interrupted, his voice low, but there was an edge to it now, a hint of steel beneath the exhaustion.

"That's not the point," I snapped, my voice rising despite myself. I could feel the heat in my cheeks, that familiar sensation of losing control that I hated, that went against every instinct I'd honed over years of managing classrooms full of energetic children. "The point is that I'm here, trying to make things work, trying to hold this family together, and all you do is shut me out. You've barely said three words to me since you got home. Do you even care, Paul? Do you even care about this marriage anymore?"

The question hung in the air between us, heavy and horrible. Part of me wanted to take it back, to unsay it, but a larger part of me needed to hear his answer, needed to know if there was anything left worth fighting for.

He sighed heavily, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his face with one hand. The gesture was so familiar it hurt—that same tired movement I'd seen a thousand times, usually right before he retreated further into himself. "I don't want to do this right now, Claire."

"Well, tough," I shot back, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. My voice was shaking now, but I pushed forward anyway. "Because I can't keep going like this. If you've got something to say, just bloody say it. Because the way things are now—it's not working."

Before he could reply, his phone buzzed on the table. He glanced at the screen, and for the briefest moment, something like relief flickered across his face.

"Of course," I said bitterly, folding my arms across my chest. "Of course, you'd rather answer the bloody phone than have an actual conversation with your wife."

"Claire, I'm not doing this," he said, grabbing the phone and standing up. His chair scraped against the floor with a harsh sound that made me wince. "I'm not."

And just like that, he was gone, heading down the hall to the bedroom with his phone pressed to his ear. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving me alone in the kitchen with nothing but the sound of my own ragged breathing and the kettle hissing as it boiled over.

The steam rose in angry clouds, and I realised I'd forgotten I'd put it on. How long ago? Five minutes? Ten? Time felt slippery lately, like I couldn't quite grasp it.

My chest heaved as I turned back to the sink, gripping the counter to steady myself. The silence in the house felt louder than ever, suffocating me, wrapping around my throat like invisible hands. Through the window, the last light was draining from the sky, leaving everything grey and indistinct.

Without thinking, I grabbed my phone off the counter and dialled. My hands were shaking. The dial tone buzzed once, twice, and then Amelia's familiar voice answered, sharp and alert.

"Claire? What's wrong?"

Straight to the point. That was Amelia. No preamble, no social niceties. Just that midwife's assessment, that immediate triage of the situation.

"It's Paul," I said, my voice trembling. "I don't know what to do anymore, Amelia. I really don't."

Amelia's voice was calm, steady. It always had that effect on me, even when I was at my worst—that practical, grounded quality that made me feel like maybe things could be managed, maybe there was a solution if we just thought it through logically. "Alright, start from the beginning. What happened this time?"

I sighed, leaning back against the counter, one hand running through my hair. It needed washing. When had I last washed it? "It's Paul. He's been impossible. Just... sulking around the house, barely speaking to me, snapping over the smallest things. And now, he just walked out on another conversation to answer a bloody phone call."

There was a pause on the other end of the line, then Amelia sighed. I could picture her in her Townsville kitchen, probably cleaning up after dinner, phone tucked between ear and shoulder. "He's always been like that, hasn't he? Running away the moment things get too hard."

I clenched my teeth, her words hitting too close to home. "Yes, but it's worse now. It's like he's checked out completely. We used to be able to talk—fight even—but at least we were trying. Now it feels like... like he's given up."

"That's because he's selfish, Claire," Amelia said matter-of-factly, her voice taking on that clinical edge she got sometimes. "He always has been. You bend over backwards for him and the kids, running the house, running your business, and he just takes it all for granted."

A bitter laugh escaped my throat before I could stop it, sharp and humourless. "He doesn't even notice anymore. Half the time, I feel like I'm invisible. And when he does notice, it's just to tell me what I've done wrong."

"Classic Paul," Amelia muttered, and I could hear the disdain in her voice. "Honestly, I don't know how you've put up with him this long."

I rubbed my temple, feeling the tension building there, that familiar pressure behind my eyes that meant a headache was coming. "I don't know either, Amelia. I really don't. But I can't just—"

"Leave?" Amelia finished for me, her tone sharp now, cutting. "You don't owe him anything, Claire. You're the one holding this family together, not him. If he's not going to step up, why should you stay and let him drag you down?"

Her words settled heavily on my chest, a mix of truth and something darker, something that scared me. I turned away from the sink, pacing the length of the kitchen, the phone pressed tight against my ear. My bare feet were cold on the tiles. "It's not that simple. There's the kids to think about. And it's not like he's all bad. When things are good, he's... he's a great dad, and he can be so thoughtful when he wants to be."

"But how often is that?" Amelia pressed, her voice cold, unrelenting. I could hear that note in it, that push she got when she thought she was helping, when she thought she was making me see sense. "How often does he actually make you happy, Claire? How often does he make you feel like... like you matter?"

I stopped pacing, her words hitting me like a punch to the gut. The kitchen light flickered overhead—another thing that needed fixing. How often? I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt like that, couldn't remember the last time Paul had looked at me and I'd seen something other than resignation or irritation or that awful, hollow absence.

"Look," Amelia said, her tone softening slightly, as if she could sense she'd pushed too hard. "I'm not saying you should make any big decisions right now. But you've got to stop letting him walk all over you. He's not going to change unless he knows you mean business."

"I don't even know how to do that anymore," I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. I felt hollow, scraped out, like all the fight had drained away and left nothing behind. "It's like everything I say just bounces off him. Like he's already decided I'm the enemy."

"Then let him stew," Amelia said firmly, that decisive note back in her voice. "Stop chasing after him. Let him feel what it's like when you're not there cleaning up his messes. Maybe then he'll realise how much you actually do for him."

I didn't respond right away. My mind was spinning, replaying our argument, the look on Paul's face as he grabbed his phone and walked away—that flash of relief, like I was a burden he was escaping. "He thinks I'm too much," I murmured, almost to myself. "Too demanding, too... everything."

"No, Claire," Amelia said sharply, her voice cutting through my spiralling thoughts. "You're not too much. He's just not enough."

For a moment, I felt like I couldn't breathe. The house was so quiet now, the kind of quiet that made my ears ring, that made the space feel vast and empty instead of safe.

"Claire?" Amelia prompted gently, her voice softer now. "You still there?"

"I'm here," I said, my voice thick. My throat felt tight, like there were words stuck in it that I couldn't quite form. "I just... I don't know, Amelia. I don't know what to do anymore."

She was about to reply when a sudden creak from the hallway made me freeze. The phone nearly slipped from my hand. My grip tightened on it, my whole body going still, alert. I turned towards the sound, my heart beating faster, that dancer's awareness of space and movement suddenly acute.

"What is it?" Amelia asked, her voice sharp with concern, urgent.

"I think Paul's..." I started, but the words trailed off as I moved cautiously towards the bedroom. My bare feet made no sound on the floor, my breathing shallow.

I pushed the bedroom door open with one hand, the phone still pressed to my ear. The hinges creaked softly. "Hang on a second, Amelia," I whispered, my voice barely audible, the knot in my stomach tightening as I stepped inside.

The room was dim. For a moment, I thought the room was empty. The bed was neatly made—not by Paul, obviously, because he never made the bed—and his usual cluttered pile of clothes in the corner remained untouched, exactly as he'd left them this morning.

And then I saw him.

Paul was perched awkwardly on the windowsill, his lanky frame silhouetted against the dusky sky like some bizarre theatre performance. His bag was already on the ground outside—I could see it there in the garden, a dark shape amongst the roses—and he was halfway through manoeuvring his legs over the edge.

"What the bloody hell are you doing?" The words burst out of me before I could stop them, sharp and incredulous.

Paul froze, his head snapping around to look at me. The expression on his face—a mix of panic, guilt, and sheer stupidity—would have been laughable if I wasn't so furious. His eyes were wide, caught, and for a second he just stared at me like a schoolboy found doing something forbidden.

"Claire, I..." he started, but whatever excuse he'd been about to offer was cut off as he lost his grip on the windowsill.

Time seemed to slow as his body pitched forward, arms flailing uselessly, completely lacking the grace or control he'd always prided himself on. I stood rooted to the spot, watching in a mix of horror and disbelief as he disappeared from view with an ungraceful yelp, followed by the unmistakable sound of him landing in the rose bushes below—a crash and rustle and a muffled curse.

"Paul!" I shouted, my shock breaking, leaning out of the window. The cool evening air hit my face.

He was already scrambling to his feet, brushing leaves and thorns off his jeans with hurried, jerky movements. The sight of him, cursing under his breath as he wrestled free of the branches, plucking thorns from his hands, might have been comical if I weren't so angry. Rose thorns. How fitting.

"You absolute coward!" I hissed, my voice trembling with rage as I leant out further. "Is this your idea of fixing things? Running off like a bloody idiot in the middle of the night?"

Paul didn't answer. He didn't even look up. Just grabbed his bag off the ground—I watched him do it, watched him check it over like it mattered more than I did—and headed straight for the car without so much as a glance back. His car keys were already in his hand. He'd planned this. He'd actually planned to sneak out through the window like a teenager.

"Paul!" I called again, louder this time, my voice echoing across the garden. But he didn't stop.

The sound of the car door slamming cut through the night, harsh and final. The engine roared to life a moment later. By the time I made it out of the bedroom and down the hall, my bare feet slapping against the floor, the tyres were crunching over the gravel driveway, spitting stones.

I burst through the front door just in time to see the car's taillights disappearing down the road, fading into the darkness like dying embers. My chest tightened as I stood there on the porch, the cool night air biting at my skin through my thin jumper. The stars were out, hard and bright in the desert sky, indifferent.

He was gone.

I stared at the empty driveway, at the tracks his tyres had left in the gravel, my heart pounding in my chest. My hands were trembling—whether from anger, frustration, or something else entirely, I couldn't tell. I wanted to scream, to throw something, to demand he come back and face me like a man instead of slinking off like a thief in the night. But all I could do was stand there, frozen in place, watching the space where his car had been.

The phone in my hand sounded faintly, Amelia's voice calling me back to the present, small and tinny. "Claire? What's going on? Are you okay?"

I raised the phone to my ear, my throat tight. "He's gone," I said, my voice cracking. The words came out flat, empty. "He just... drove off."

There was a long pause on the other end of the line before Amelia spoke again, her tone cautious, careful. "Gone where?"

"I don't know," I said bitterly, stepping back inside and closing the door behind me with a soft click. The lock engaged with a sound like finality. The sudden quiet of the house felt suffocating, pressing down on me like a weight, like the ceiling was lowering inch by inch. "Somewhere he doesn't have to face me, apparently."

"Claire," Amelia started, her voice soft now, but I cut her off.

"I don't want to talk about it," I said quickly, sinking into one of the kitchen chairs. My legs felt weak. The pile of unopened post still sat on the table where Paul had left it, a silent reminder of the life he'd just walked away from. Bills. Offers for credit cards we didn't need.

"Alright," Amelia said after a moment, and I could hear the concern in her voice, the way she was holding back what she really wanted to say. "But I'm here if you do."

I nodded, even though she couldn't see me, my fingers tracing the edge of the table. The wood was smooth, worn from years of family meals and homework sessions and all the mundane moments that make up a life. "I know," I said quietly. "Thanks."

I hung up, letting the phone fall onto the table with a dull thud. For a long moment, I just sat there, staring blankly at the wall opposite. The clock ticked. The refrigerator hummed. Somewhere outside, Charlie barked.

The anger was still there, simmering just beneath the surface, but it was tangled up with something heavier—a hollow ache that I didn't have the energy to name. I felt emptied out, like all the words and fight had drained away and left nothing but this vast, yawning space inside me.

Paul was gone, and for the first time in years, I wasn't sure if he was coming back.

And the worst part? I wasn't sure if I wanted him to.