Page 15 of What It's Like in Words
And he didn’t say a word and just shoved his feet on the table.
I know but—
And then he called Chris a cunt.
Chris’s character.
Same difference.
I smiled: So you’re saying you agreed with him?
Her mouth fell slack, and she conceded. Fine, we all know that Chris can be a “See You Next Tuesday,” but he didn’t need to say it!
I wasn’t offended by Amy’s thoughts. I would rather that people had an opinion than think he was justnice. I worried that people thought that about me, because it took me longer to reveal the colors of myself, which he and Ruth and even Amy offered confidently. I was still curating pieces for him. The “funny” piece. The “sexy” piece. The “sweet” piece.
I pointed to the cake on the table and said that he had made it for me. Amy looked confused and replied that perhaps he wasn’t as hostile as he seemed. I replied that he was exactly as hostile as he seemed, and she looked even more confused.
Well, she said, sipping her prosecco, I’m just happy you’re seeing someone. You do know that if you don’t have sex for more than six months, your vagina seals back up? Oh my god, there’s Floo!Floo!Amy opened her arms to our friend Fiona, prosecco swishing from her glass, and I returned to him.
For the first fifteen minutes of the party, he had awkwardly flipped through the recipe books on the window ledge and I had realized, as he muttered things likeThirty minutes, my arse, that he cared about tonight.
He pressed his lips to my hair, then took a swig of beer. Why is she here? he asked, nodding to Amy. She’s like a Stepford wife.
She’s a friend, you know that.
Yeah, but like, awritingfriend?
Amy and I were at university together.
You were?
I told you that!
You didn’t.
And she’s not a Stepford wife. What even is a Stepford wife? She’s really talented.
Just what the world needs, he said, taking another swig of beer.
I told him that for someone who didn’t care what anyone thought of him he was surprisingly critical of others.
(the “no-nonsense” piece)
He told me that was because he was always right. Then he pointed to my blinds and said that I had moths. I told him that I knew. He asked why I wasn’t getting rid of them. I said that I didn’t want to bother them.
(the “adorable” piece)
He furrowed his brow. They’remoths, honey, he said, his voice beer-drenched and delicious.
I felt a deep happiness thinking about how at the end of the evening everyone would leave but he would stay. We hadn’t used words to define our relationship, but his directness was a comfort; he wasn’t the sort of person to be anywhere he didn’t want to be. If he didn’t want to be at the party, he would leave; if he didn’t want to be with me, he would leave me. But still, the words would be nice.
So… this is nice… you being here, meeting my friends…
Okay…
Some would say that’s a big step.
Some?
