Page 12 of What It's Like in Words
Good, because I know you put their needs before yours sometimes.
Ruth was right, but I liked not having to decide what I wanted. To have someone make the decisions for me. I would tell him what I wanted over time, and my fake orgasms would seamlessly transform into real ones.
The doorbell sounded. It was only this morning that I was waking up to the light from where his blinds didn’t hang flush, and now he was coming over to have takeaway and watch scary movies.
Roo, he’s here. I’ll call you later.
Okay. Have fun. Remember that I loved you when you cut your own fringe.
We hung up the phone and I quickly scanned the flat. It was the first time he had come over and I had hoovered and dusted and repositioned every trinket, as if it would matter to him that my candle holders were symmetrical, but, like all our interactions over these past three weeks, I needed it to be perfect. I opened the door, and there he was: dark green shirt, silver chain, denim jacket with the rip.
Happy Halloween, Gay.
Long time no see.
We looked at each other for a moment, both thinking, I hoped, how well this was going. Then I told him to come in, and he thanked me like I had suggested something dirty. I wanted to bite his earlobes. He didn’t wait for me; he just moved through the flat, peering in each room. There was a spot in the kitchen where you could smell the neighbor’s fish curry.
I know, it’s annoying, I said as he sniffed and scrunched his face.
But it didn’t annoy me. I saw them in the lift sometimes; they were a family and I liked that they ate together.
He moved into the living room and pointed out the buildings from the balcony window as if I hadn’t seen them before. I sat onthe sofa and saw my home through his eyes: embroidered cushions; double bookshelf; coffee table with a book on succulents, a gilded bowl, and a tray shaped like a monstera leaf. He picked up the tray and blew the dust off it. You should move this to the front door to put keys in, Gay.
He ran his hands across the bookshelf and called me a twat for organizing my books by color. He held up a romance novel. I told him it was a Secret Santa present. I gestured to the Vonnegut section and told him that he was ignoring the books he liked. He picked up a photograph of me and Ruth. The knees were the widest parts of our legs and our smiles had matching gaps. It was a print of the one by her bed. I didn’t have any pictures of our childhood because Mum burned them.
Is that Ruth?
Yes.
Where’s this taken?
An elephant orphanage.
He sat next to me; his eyes were pale in the light from the window. He leaned back, and his face changed. He pulled a cushion from behind him. What the fuck is this? You’d slice an artery on those sequins. I took the cushion and told him to thank me for saving his life.
The tortured doesn’t thank the torturer, he said.
They do in Torture Garden, I said, recalling how tonight Hugo would be donning a leather harness and dog collar.
He laughed and pulled me close.
You want to go to Torture Garden, honey?
Honey.
I shook my head and rested it on his shoulder. His shirt smelled like it had been left in the washing machine too long. He asked how I’d afforded to buy a flat with my café salary. Are you a poor little rich girl? Don’t worry, I won’t think less of you. I’ll probably like you more. I’ve always wanted to be a kept man.
I told him that when my grandparents died, they left me moneyfrom their house sale. They didn’t have loads, but because they were basically my caregivers from—
Where was your mum?
She moved to France to be with her boyfriend.
He made a noise that implied he understood. He didn’t get on with Karen, his stepmother. He said that it must be nice to have somewhere to go in France. I told him I hadn’t been there in years. When Mum left, she decided that we should speak once a week, and that’s the extent of it still now. Five minutes every Wednesday.
Once a week is loads.
Is it?
