Cylinder: A Cylindrical Love Story

Cylinder - A Cylindrical Love Story

"Come in," I'd say, "for coffee... listen to some CDs?" He normally
would I'd find, and so whilst chatting flirtatiously sipping at our
mugs, I would always create an appropriate moment to bring out the
cylinder. A cardboard cylinder, green, hollow, with one end blocked,
like a container for tennis balls, in fact about that size. "Here," I'd
say and throw it over to him, "have a look inside..." Usually startled,
confused or blinking back at me oddly he'd react with a "What?" or a
"What's this?" and I'd repeat myself. "Have a look down it," I'd say.
"Tell me what you see!"

I went out with many men, and I'll be honest, I had interesting
evenings with lots of them. But I was looking for someone special, the
special one, I didn't need magazines to tell me there was someone,
someone I should wait for, someone specially for me. Who was that? I
wanted to know. And so I began a process. The cylinder was the perfect
compatibility test, and it started quite by accident. I assured myself
it could tell me all I needed to know.

Most of them obliged me, they'd put down their coffee and look
cautiously down into the cylinder, some looking like they expected a
pop and a smack in the eye, others happy to take a peep, holding it
upwards or outwards like a telescope. "Tell me what you see..." I'd say
wispily, and the answer... was everything.

A man who said "Nothing" was a bore, flat and without charm. I
couldn't bear a man who said "Nothing", and believe me, there were
lots. Disappointment must have shone on my face because they'd always
get defensive, "There's nothing in there!" or "It's empty... just a
tube!" No imagination. Then there were the "Nothing"s accompanied by an
additional word. "Nothing - black," or "Darkness - nothing," as if dark
or black meant nothing. No curiosity. Not the man for me. Some of them
wouldn't even look at all, stubborn or scared, or simply fed up with me
before I got fed up with them. No sense of adventure. Something wasn't
clicking. There were those who'd try, I give them credit, describing a
starry sky or a paradise island. They were nice people, really nice,
but they tried too hard. What did I want from them? I didn't know. I
hadn't thought of it yet.

I'd kept the cylinder for years. I'd found it in the boot of the car
I'd bought secondhand, and I hadn't been able to throw it away. It
attracted me, even though I didn't know what it was or where it came
from. Packaging of some kind, I'd always guessed, although that really
wasn't the issue. By the time I came round to meeting Tom I was half
considering abandoning the cylinder altogether. Where had it got me
after all? I was almost twenty-five and I hadn't once 'done the
deed'.

It was late January and the night was cold. "You coming in?" I asked
him outside the flat. "Fancy a coffee? Some CDs?" Inside I put the
kettle on and walked through to the hi-fi in the living room. With my
back partly turned I noticed Tom bending down to pick something up from
the floor next to the magazine pile. The cylinder. I stopped scanning
the CD rack. He looked at me. He flipped it in the air. Caught it. I
was suddenly very nervous. He closed one eye and then put the cylinder
up to his face, not over his open eye, but over his closed one! "Ahoy
there," he cackled and I couldn't stop laughing. He didn't even need to
be asked I was thinking, immediately searching Tom's face from a new
perspective. That green cardboard cylinder was the key.

I decided I'd ask him out again. He was lovely, he was beautiful, and
he smelt of a warm wooden kitchen, or cut twigs, soft and forresty.
Within a week we were seeing each other every night. It was all
exciting, I felt like I suddenly had a secret. During the daytime I
missed him, I bought him flowers. "No one's ever bought me flowers," he
said and put them down on my couch so he could hold me with both arms.
"They're dahlias" I explained, "I thought they went well with your
eyes." He laughed quickly and kissed me all over my neck and breasts,
and he forgot to take them home. The words "I love you" came along in
bed one night, and I sighed and whispered them back. In the morning Tom
was gone but I wrote them down in pencil and looked at them.

My friends were amazed that I was seeing someone, I was so fussy they
said. My mother called and said she was glad I was finally using my own
sense of judgment rather than relying on a stupid test. She said she
knew it would pay to stop reading those magazines. I didn't tell her I
hadn't stopped reading them, or that it was the cylinder that had
brought Tom and I together.

Valentine's Day was approaching, and one night while Tom was round at
mine watching TV, I pulled out the travel brochures I'd picked out for
a romantic weekend away in Paris. "You must be joking," Tom said
without turning his head from the TV. "We can't afford that."

"Oh yes we can!" I sang at him. "I get paid on Monday!"

Tom looked at me blankly. "You're unbelievable" he muttered. "You want
us to go away together... a romantic city break?" He laughed picking up
one of my brochures and read from the front. "Treat the love of your
life to the city of dreams." He laughed louder and slammed it down. I
couldn't see what was funny.

"What is it?" I asked him as I went over and began stroking his
hair.

"Leave off me!" he snapped and jumped up from the couch. "What do you
think I am, a pet dog?"

I'd never seen Tom so angry and couldn't react, I was astonished.
"What's the matter babe?" I asked him. "What have I done?"

"Just stop it" he said. "I can't do this. All we do is fuck and watch
TV. You read magazines, we don't talk, we don't even laugh. I don't
know what I'm doing. I don't know why I'm even here." He started
walking across the room towards the doorway. "Sorry" he said as he
unhooked his jacket and scarf, and that was it, he left. It was only
nine-fifteen. I cleaned up the mess in the flat then sat down and
cried.

"Bastard" I said out loud. "I trusted you." The cylinder stood proud
on the corner shelf. "I hate you," I said sulkily and grabbed it from
its upright position. I stuck my arm inside and waved it about. "I
don't hate you." I smiled with swelling eyes. I think I even stroked
it.

I still use the cylinder, I'm back to asking them in for coffee - the
old rigmarole, only now I'm less particular. As long as I get an answer
I'm vaguely happy with, I take them to bed and that's that. Vacant
one-night stands, say the magazines, are not meaningful loving
relationships, and can only lead to nothing. Sex is one thing, but it's
what you see inside that matters.