Page 4 of What It's Like in Words
What do you mean?
You used the past tense.
I changed the subject and asked him what his novel was about. His face lifted like it had done in the pub. He said that it was a political satire, or at least it would be when it was finished. I asked what he did for work, and he told me that he was doing a bit of freelance writing.You know the drill, he said conspiratorially. But I did not know the drill. I told him how impressive it was that he was a full-time writer, and he laughed, a short, explosive sound, and told me that he had given me the highlights.
So, there are lowlights?
He leaned in and told me that there were shadows.
Very good.
And that’s why Woking’s Free Fish Company pay me the average bucks, Gay.
He relaxed back, and his knee grazed mine. I thought about moving my leg but that would tell him that I wasn’t interested. I thought about letting my leg fully relax against his but that would tell him that I was. Tension formed in my thigh from keeping my legalmosttouching his.
So, where doyouday job? he asked, as if asking where I summered. I told him that I worked in a café at a hedge fund with my best friend. I thought about getting something permanent, but Ruth—
That’s your friend?
My best friend. Her family moved to Kenya the same year and left the same year too. Nobody knows me like she does.
I nodded.
Ruth said that I’d never finish my novel if I did. So I’ve given myself until I’m thirty to finish it, and if that doesn’t happen, then I’ll look at getting something more—
Grown-up?
I nodded again.
He told me that, from someone who had turned thirty a few years ago, I shouldn’t put a time limit on things. And you might even get sick of making sandwiches for posh wankers before then. How old are you? I blushed, and he rolled his eyes again: Comeon. I replied that I was twenty-eight next month, and he hummed and said: I take it back, thatisold, you probably should get a grown-up job.
We make quiche too, I said.
The light behind his eyes clicked on: I had surprised him. Oh, well, that’s different, he said warmly, and the desire to please him bloomed like an addiction.
We sat listening to the road and the rain and the world blurring.
When there was a big rainstorm on safari, we would wait in the car until the ground was dry enough to put up the tents. The windows would steam up, and our skin would turn sticky. Mum hated camping, so she would sulk in the front seat, but Dad would start a game:I went to the market and bought—
All right, Enola, he said, enunciating my name like it was fictional. If this bus journey is a drink, tell me: favorite book, TV show, and food?
Erm, I’m not sure.Ulysses,Grey’s Anatomy, and kiwis?
He made a face and told me that he was allergic to kiwis. I blow up like an acid attack victim.
I clamped my hand over my mouth.
AndUlysses? Christ. Come on…
He asked me what myrealfavorite book was, muttering that I was honest aboutGrey’s Anatomyat least. I asked him what his favorite book was, then, and without missing a beat, he said: Gary Neville’s autobiography.
Just past the mosque, I reached for the red button in a way that caused my collar to hover below his nose. He cleared his throat to let me know that he had noticed. Then, in the knowledge that our stop was next, we allowed our knees to touch until the bus juddered and we disembarked, him first and me behind.
WE STOOD WITH THErain ricocheting around us. He was tall, and my eyes reached the triangle of his collarbone. I lifted my chin and met his gaze. I felt a pulse between my legs and a less pleasant sensation in my stomach.
Well, this is me, I said in the tone the cliché demanded. This is me too, he replied in the same way. I gestured to my right. He to his left. Opposite directions, then. My trainers were soaked and rain wasdripping off his nose, but neither of us moved. I didn’t know what he was thinking, but then he inhaled and said: Well, goodbye then.
Oh god. Is he just waiting for me to leave?
