Page 61 of What It's Like in Words
That’s not what I meant!
Ruth put her hands over her face. For a second, I saw the samedespair in her eyes as I used to see in his. She tried again: Okay, so this is a really simplistic example but, like, you know when you get upset about the coffee grounds spilling and it’s clearly about something else?
No. It’s always about the coffee grounds.
Fine, that’s a bad example.
Ruth said that she was worried I would get into this situation again if I didn’t figure out why I liked him to begin with. I reassured her that I would never get back together with him, but she was still frustrated. I didn’t meanhimnecessarily, Enola, I meant—Forget it, I’m not expressing myself well.
I put my arms around her and told her that I was sorry. She told me not to apologize. I said that she would never lose her mind over someone. She hummed. That’s not true—remember a few years ago, my obsession with that yoga instructor? I told her that people were supposed to became calmer toward their thirties but that I seemed to be regressing. She said that I wasn’t regressing, I was—
But the music was too loud to hear the last word.
At the bar, I ordered another tequila and a Jägerbomb. Ruth looked concerned, but we returned to the dance floor. Everything was fun until I caught sight of myself in the mirrored wall. My hair was flat, and my skin was pallid. There were black flecks under my eyes, and I could see the line from where my underwear cut into my waist. I was the ghost that appeared when a photo of a group of friends was developed—one of those images shared on social media with a message saying you would die in seven days if you didn’t pass it on. But Ruth looked beautiful. She hadn’t even wanted to come out tonight, but she was immaculate. There wasn’t a pore on her face, and she had the figure of an “after” picture. I noticed then the men gathering around her, dancing with their friends but keeping one eye on her, edging closer, willing her to look at them.
God, yeah, it must be a nightmare going out with Ruth.
Ruth put her hand on my shoulder and asked if I was feelingokay. I told her that I needed some water. She said that she would get it, but when she left, I took myself home.
My phone pinged with messages.
Where did you go?
I’m with Sasha by the left speaker.
Are you okay??
I lied that I was in an Uber.
It was warm, and there was no breeze apart from the traffic. I put my headphones in and listened to music on shuffle. Being surrounded by songs made me feel like my pain was normal, beautiful even, until the opening chords of “Video Games” teleported me back to the beach. But I played the song over and over until, somewhere between Dalston and Shoreditch, it lost meaning.
After about fifteen minutes, I sensed someone following me.
I kept my headphones in but paused the music.
What would I do? Confront them? Run into the middle of the road? What would a feminist do? That was a stupid thought. A feminist would do what any woman would: try to survive.
I saw a broken bottle on the ground. I could plunge it into their neck? Argue self-defense?But she was wearing a very short dress.I worked up the courage to look behind me, but it was just another woman, jacket pulled up, phone gripped like a weapon.
WHENIGOT HOME, I ran to the bathroom, crouched over the toilet, and vomited until alcohol stung my nose and throat. When there was nothing left inside me, I curled onto the tiles and sobbed.This is what single and happy looks like.God, I missed him. I missed him so much. I got my phone—ignoring the missed calls from Ruth—and rang him. It was one in the morning—hehadto answer. If he didn’t answer, was he with someone else? I wanted to smack my head against the tiles. The phone rang and rang but, at last, his voice: Enola?
I need to see you.
Oh, honey…
Please,please. I just need to see you, okay?
He said my name as if he were a parent warning a child, but I pleaded desperately. Why not, though? Why can’t we see each other, just for tonight? I reminded him that we made the rules: That’s what you said—thatwemake the rules? I held my breath until he spoke. He told me that he had friends over for poker but would be finished in an hour.
ISHOWERED AND DRESSEDagain like it was the beginning of the night. As I walked to his flat, I knew that this relief was temporary, but I didn’t care, because in a few more steps it would be him.
Hey.
Hey, you.
His pupils were dilated, and there was a beer in his hand. He walked me into his bedroom, put his beer on the desk, and stood by the unmade bed. The sheets were the same. He said that this was breaking the rules. Definitely, I agreed, like they were my rules to break. I ran my fingers through his hair. He moaned to let me know that it felt good and the sadness left my body. But then he pushed my hand onto his crotch. Come on, then, is this what you wanted? Everything happened next as on a fairground ride: fast and unpredictable. I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t keep up. His hand pushed up my skirt and pulled at my underwear. When he lifted his top, I could smell dried sweat.He hasn’t showered?The main lights were on, and the curtains were open. Nothing was cozy; nothing was safe. This was wrong. I was trading my body for the hope of his heart, and he was saying yes to a cup of tea that he didn’t really want because someone else was making it.
Quick and hard, he took several fistfuls of me until he shuddered into my neck. After he came and I didn’t even pretend to, he put his clothes back on, and, for some reason, I began to shiver. I asked if he could lend me a jumper.
