Page 9 of What It's Like in Words
I said that he had missed a window to say something smooth. He asked me for an example. Like… you were hoping to meet me? I said, and immediately cringed. I had hoped to sound sexy, like with the underwear comment, but this felt wrong.
His eyes didn’t light up, but he chuckled, slightly.
I’m not smooth, he said.
No?
Apart from my body, which feels like a baby seal.
I noticed the dark hair where his shirt met his chest; there was nothing smooth about his body. I can’t comment on the seal thing but I think you’re smooth, I said, because it felt like a good thing to say. And it must have been, because he made a face, like the one my dad used to make when I did something silly.
He replied that he was glad he had fooled me, but that I looked like someone who was easily fooled. I asked why he thought that and he asked if that was another window. It was my turn to ask him for an example, and he said that I was blushing. I said that I wasn’t, but he pointed to my face, which instantly warmed under scrutiny, and said: See.
That’s not a window, that’s a trap.
We spent the rest of the evening debating every choice. You can’t use slang. That’s not slang. It’s absolutely slang.You’reslang. When the board was full and he had won, we ordered two more drinks that we didn’t need. The conversation slowed, and I realized the whiskey had gone to my head. He was staring at me like he was scrutinizing my face, and so I asked a stupid question about how many times an old-fashioned needed stirring, and he leaned across the table, placed his hand on my cheek, and kissed me.
Everything stopped.
The anxiety. The pressure. The world.
It all stopped.
Pulling away, he whispered: There, now that’s taken care of.
IN THE BATHROOM,Ipressed my lips to my hand to re-create the sensation of kissing him. I wondered what it had felt like for him. I texted Ruth:
Sorry for lateness. Won’t come by. Got a bit drunk. Kissed him and it was the best kiss of my life. Don’t make fun of me for saying that.
My mouth tasted stale from the whiskey. (Was it stale when he kissed me?) I put some gum in my mouth. Ruth replied:
You gonna stay with him tonight…?
Did I want to sleep with him tonight? (I had lied about the underwear; I was wearing a black lace set.) My mum’s voice, uninvited:Enola, women wear underwear for themselves, not for a man.Did she wear nice underwear in France for Paul? Did she wear it for my dad? But it was only date one, and something about him made me uneasy. And it wasn’t just his large frame or the gray in his hair, it was him, how he spoke, how he placed the tiles on the board like he knew what I was going to do next.
I came back out, and he was leaning by the door with his arms folded, like that photograph of James Dean. You ever played two truths and a lie? He wound my hair around his finger. One: I have an enormous bed. Two: I have a bottle of champagne in my room. Three: I have no interest in you coming over tonight.
I’m not coming over tonight, I said decisively.
Come on, let me see those granny pants. Or are you a date-three girl?
I pushed his chest, but he wrapped my hands around his waist.The texture of his jacket. The warmth of his face. I wanted him to kiss me again. I wanted it more than food or sleep or water.
So, thiswasa date?
Semantics. Comeon, he repeated. Don’t you want to see how big my bed is?
I told him that I had to write, and he said that he was taking a break from his novel because he was stuck in a writing k-hole. I asked him what a k-hole was, and he said that it was when you took too much ketamine and wandered around in a circle. I told him that I had only taken ketamine once: Ruth gave me a corner at a festival and we were mermaids. He pulled me closer and whispered: What sort of creature are you?
The sort that’snoteasily fooled…
He shook his head. Gay, yours is a face that a con man would target.
It’s not!
You look like someone who plays Candy Crush.
It’s good for mindfulness!
