Page 2 of What It's Like in Words
It didn’t feel like a trope to me. I loved how you subverted the mystery convention, I said.
Thank you, Amy responded, with a look to Chris.
Hugo called me diplomatic, using the third person.
No, said Amy, whippet-quick, she just got it.
When we paused for more drinks, the stranger jumped up first, like he couldn’t wait to leave the table, and Amy immediately tapped my arm and gestured to where he stood, wallet on the bar like a coin on a pool table. Why was I soawareof him?
Mat texted that he might bring a mate, she said.
Mat was the final member of the writing group. He wrote historical fiction, and ironed his jeans.
But then Mat got food poisoning, Amy continued.Typical. And this friend came anyway. I mean, he’s not quite the vibe for our group, is he? He doesn’tlooklike a writer.
Skimming over Amy’s thinking food poisoning was “typical,” I asked her what a writer looked like, and she said: Clean?
I laughed, but I wasn’t in a position to judge. I felt more and more like writing was something I’d stumbled into and couldn’t find my way out of, like those hikers who die in caves. I said it was weird that no one had introduced him, and Amy’s coral lips puckered.
He should have introduced himself, Enola.
The stranger returned sipping a fresh pint of beer or cider. I might have imagined it but it seemed like he shuffled his chair closer to mine.
Shall we carry on, Amy said without the question mark.
Cider. I can smell it on his thick lips.
He wiped his mouth with his thumb, and I wondered how dirty his thumb was, or why he hadn’t repaired the rip in his jacket. His face reminded me of one of those papier-mâché dummies from art classes at school.
Chris’s novel was up next, and, adjusting his roll-neck, he asked for our thoughts. Before anyone else could speak, the stranger removed the pen from his mouth and said: I thought your protagonist was a cunt. Then he leaned back and watched the damage. There was a stunned silence before the group launched into platitudes: No, no, he’s not a cunt, Chris. He’s just nuanced! Yeah, there’s only aslightdusting of misogyny. But Chris’s protagonist was a cunt. I stifled a laugh, and the stranger grinned at me like we had robbed a bank.
And just like that I was invited in.
The difference a smile made to skin was paper being folded and unfolded. The deep lines lifted as if by fishing line and he had, at once, the warmest face I had ever seen. His eyes were green and his smile was suggestive but kind. I wanted to play with him. I wanted to look after him. I wanted to slap him. I wanted to fuck him. I snapped my head down to the stain on his gray T-shirt, but, wait—
HE CAN’T BE WEARINGthat gray T-shirt? This was two years ago and his stepmother, Karen, only bought it for him last Christmas. How can I be objective when my memory has him wearing a T-shirt not yet woven into significance? Anyway—
WHEN THE BELL RANGfor last orders, we were ready to leave. I went to the toilet, and when I returned, he was gone, pub door swinging as though he had just passed through. I put on my coat and left feeling disappointed and then confused as to why. I didn’t want to see him again, and yet I had put on lipstick in the bathroom.
I wanted to walk home, but it was raining, so I went to the bus stop. I thought about how it felt when he smiled at me, or rather, how it felt to be the person he had chosen to smile at. I tried to think of something else—my novel or what snack I might make—but it was like there was nothing to look forward to, just a novel I had no desire to write and a morning shift I had no desire to do.
A bus approached, and it wasn’t my number, but people embarked, and that’s when I saw him. Leaning against the glass. Rip in his jacket. Cigarette where the pen had been.
My heart started.
We pretended not to notice each other. Or I did. I wasn’t sure if he was pretending. Then he looked over and said, saturnine: Hi, do you come here often? I tried to hide my smile, but he moved closer. He remarked that everyone had been pretty pissed. Do you always meet in a pub? I told him that Amy believed alcohol softened criticism. I’m not sure about that, he replied. The guy in the jumper wanted to punch me.
You did call his character a cunt.
He grinned, and I turned away—eye contact was too much.
We were quiet until he reached over his head and yanked it to one side. I didn’t mean to squeal, but the crack was so loud. He looked pleased to have shocked me. I told him it would be embarrassing if he died breaking his own neck, and he said that wasn’t how he was going to die. He told me that the last hours of his life would be dedicated to watchingFriends.
Why?
I’ve never seen it.
You’ve never seenFriends?
