Untitled Chapter 1

 

the closest we ever came to kissing was on a day we went to the beach

come up to my place, she said

up? I said

yeah, there’s a hill,you ok with a hill she said, tapping her nails on the screen of her phone

 

I followed her up the hill, she pushed her bike and I watched her hips bump,

every man, and a few women, checked her out. we had only met the week before,

friend of a friend, glances across a courtyard garden, her so small that she had to peek

over elbows, on tip toes to get a glimpse of my beer flushed face.

 

we sat on her sofa that afternoon, watched music videos, I baulked when she said she hated reggae, it’s the downstroke she said, it just makes me shudder.

 

as courtships go, it was the lowest of all the keys.

 

I had a girlfriend at home, even though we were falling apart, we fought each weekend, all very middle class warfare, barbs at fifty paces, silent treatment that stretched into monday.

 

I knew the answer was not to elope with the first other who showed me a moment of attention, however sweet it may have been.

 

and Ginny was sweet alright, her hair was long then, below her shoulders, scrunchy auburn with strands of darkness.she wore jean shorts that day, her thighs lightly toasted by the sun, her lips were dry and you could her clank against the can when she put a can of lager to her lips. when she went to the fridge, I watched her move, just like up the hill. her movement seemed both deliberate and effortless, I stared without staring.

 

we watched more videos, we sat perfectly still, as if one of us moving might break a spell and we would shatter and turn to dust.I babbled about the music, thinking I might impress her, she drank beer and the rest of her face stayed still. I retreated into silence, stupid man, talking stupid shite, be mysterious for god’s sake.

 

I left after a couple of hours, drunk, giddy with dilemma. I doubled back past her window, almost as if to go back in, to throw open the door in a grand gesture, already wanting to prove my phantom love for her. I could see her, legs still curled up underneath her, looking so tiny, even on a two seater sofa

    her cat walked along the windowsill and eyed me, discomforted me with its gaze, warding me off

        go home, stranger, go home now before you fall

 

I didn’t go home, not right away. 

    I went to a pub I had never been to before and drank awful shots with a grateful barman, glad that his weekday night had been enlivened by my presence. there was a sadness between us, tequila pulled us together and tore us apart. after a few, I stumbled up the hill and down the other side to my home, at least, the place where I lived. I was met with a silent hatred that emanated from the bedroom, her, prosecco in hand, pyjamas already on at 7pm, stabbing me from under the duvet. I walked back out, took to the sofa and wondered if Ginny’s cat was still patrolling her outer perimeter.

_________________________________________________________________________

 

ten years have passed.

 

I still sometimes wonder what would have, could have, happened that thursday, if I had reached out a hand, would she have taken it cleanly, or would she have stiffened like a flag in a gale? if I had gone all in to kiss her or even just touch her neck with my mouth, would she have let her head tilt back and accept me into her? perhaps I flatter myself, as men do.

 

    I think about this a lot, maybe once a month, on days when I am lonesome and perhaps the weather is pinning me to the sheets. we can only ever live our lives according to the paths we actually took, not the ones that we imagine were available. 

    yet, to ruminate is a hobby that so many of us sign up for, scraping every last detail from a ten year old conversation, interpreting a glance a thousand different ways, being entirely sure that everyone hated or loved you in any given scenario.

 

    now it feels like an old friend who revisits me a few times a year and we talk about the past, a pointless reminiscence-perhaps they all are-that sustains a myth that may have only ever existed within me.

 

I could just ask her. 

 

to unravel this though would be like killing that friend, consigning them to actual history, not just my version of it.

 

    I could just ask her. she’s sat on the counter of my kitchen, swigging a bottle of san miguel whilst I roll a spliff at the table.

 

    ginny, I say, no response, 

    ginny, she is selectively deaf and the music is on loud, pixies

    ginny, she squints over at me, I swear she needs glasses

    what, she says

    can you build this, I’ve fucked this one up

    eye roll, jumps off the counter and looks over my attempt to do soft drugs

    why do you even try?

you are so shit at this, she says this as she scoops up the strewn components

she smiles, her wonky smile

    I shrug, I dunno, I say, I always think one day I’ll magically be good at it.

    she looks over at me, babe, you’re 52, it ain’t gonna happen

 

 

we walk to the bar, we are seeing a band, a friend of ours, well hers. she knows everyone in town, I merely become entangled in her slipstream. this is how it has been for all these years, me following her around, her appearing in my life every few months, between times she blocks me on everything known to modern humans for misdemeanours I never fully comprehend. one time I was banished for a year because I didn’t say goodbye one night, though I only found this out after I had served my sentence. I accept it as part of all this now, her non sequitur temper, her iridescent spirit trailing off into each dark night. 

 

two lagers please