Page 13 of What It's Like in Words
He nodded. I only speak to mine once a month.
I suppose it’s less the amount and more the—you know.
He said that wasn’t a sentence then made a face like a sad clown and told me not to feel sorry for myself. He was solightthat I thought about telling him everything about my childhood. But perhaps sensing that I might say something serious, he started humming theWilliam TellOverture, and galloped his fingers over the coffee table. I began to copy him, but he told me to stop it. Your horses would be shot for physical deformities, honey.
What?
Your hands look like how children draw hands.
No, they don’t!
Like a circle with five sticks.
He leaped his fingers over the monstera tray with a whinny and then tapped my leg. Come on, then. Let’s go out.
I thought you wanted to eat here?
Nah, I feel like curry now.
Okay, well, I just need to freshen up.
Be quick, he said, getting his phone out to scroll.
I went to the bathroom and touched up my appearance. Being with him was exhilarating. There were challenging parts; he was blunt and occasionally rude, and he wielded humor both as a weaponand a shield. But I felt happy, in that fizzy way you feel as a child jumping in a lake or seeing snow for the first time.
I came out of the bathroom, and he was in the hall holding my otter soft toy.
And who’s this?
Otter.
I see.
We stared at each other until the air turned red, and I handed myself to him like an item. He fucked me, and I felt the soreness from last night and again this morning, but I didn’t care because I was flesh and bone and blood and as crucial to the world as an old tree with hard, thick roots, while at the same time like an adult woman from a television show that I would binge-watch and envy, thinking: Her, yes, her,sheis alive.
He came, and I didn’t (which was okay because, I justified, it was only a quickie), and he zipped back up with dexterity. Right, he said. Glad we got that out of the way. No way I’d be up for it after curry. He headed for the door, and I stood naked from the waist down wishing that I had tissues and contemplating moving the monstera tray from the coffee table to the front door.
RUTH ENTERED THE BARalready removing her coat. Sorry I’m late, the interview ran on! I poured her a glass of wine and pushed her the bowl of olives. She put down an envelope and a small purple box on the table. The card is from Mum, she said. The box is from me.
Inside was a selection of Turkish delight.
It’s only small, she said.
I thanked her and put the card in my bag to open later. I asked how the interview went, but she said she didn’t want to talk about it, which meant it had gone well. Then she asked three questions without waiting for the answers: How was your birthday yesterday? How’s it going withhim? He’s coming to the party on Saturday, right?
I laughed and she told me to answer the third one.
I nodded that he was. She said that things were moving quickly. I told her that it was going really well. Roo, I’m obsessed. I can’t stop thinking about him. Things he’s said. Or thoughts he’s expressed. His odd socks and the deodorant stains on his T-shirts.
God, men are gross.
He makes me laugh so much. And he gets angry about small things. He’s so passionate. He’ll go off on a rant about the publishing industry because he’s read this tweet.
And that’s good?
It’s… I don’t know, he’s just sopresent.And Roo, he is the sexiest man I’ve ever met.
You’re doing other stuff, though, right? You’re not just having sex?
