“This Girl, and Me”

So she lifted up the cup to her lips and drank a sip of tea.  We were in a café, and it was mid-afternoon, on a Saturday.  The night before we’d both been out, with friends, and I’d stayed round hers, sprawled like a half-filled rubble sack on her couch. In the morning the tinkle of cups and the flittering of water noise from the shower had woken me up. I raised my head cautiously and as I stopped, the world zoomed on ahead.  Groaning, I turned on my side and balled up into something approaching the foetal position, the small remaining scrap of duvet slipping from my legs onto the floor.  When she came in, dressed, hair still towel-wet, I could see by the look on her face that she felt the same.  She looked at me, and I looked at her, and we might have looked at each other a half second too long. It is difficult to tell when it comes down to it.

So here we were then, drinking tea and having a light breakfast, well into the Saturday afternoon of football pool coupons and languorous cigarettes and the drone of horse racing commentary from the old boys’ radio in the corner.  They had betting slips on the surface, some stained with a little bit of chip fat grease.  The 2:10 at Elstree finished and someone issues a deep, guttural groan.  From the counter, Denny the waitress shouted over,
            “’Arry, you can’t stand all day on a cuppa!  Want some toast, luv?”  It was a half hard sell hoping he’d order a meal, half-concern for his well being.  She only ever charged Harry 20p.  Harry was a stick of a man, elderly now, well into his cups most evenings. Harry nodded at her and coughed as he compatriots started a hubbub over who had won, who had lost, and whose turn it was to get the first round when they left the Stationary Café for The Lionheart at around five.  It was some form of loose clockwork, I thought.

I thought very little, to be honest, the brown sauce bottle swaying in front of me as another wave of pain and nausea headed my way, passing over me, through me, shaking my foundations.  I’d fainted after a heavy session three weeks ago, on my knees in my flat, face close to the parquet floor.  No one had seen me.  In that respect, perhaps it was like it had never happened.  I thought a deep and silent though while someone ordered a Full English.

Here we were then, in a rough local café eating bacon and eggs and white toast at a relatively leisurely pace, her expression occasionally bunching up as and when it felt uncomfortable to be here, and to not be in bed, resting, sleeping it off, dreaming it out of you.  She had a thing to go to later this day, I, on the other hand, did not.  I had no plans.  I contemplated the empty reflection of an evening spent along with only a metaphysical hangover for company, beseeching me to cry, to jack off, to move, to love again, to do anything except sit here, still, suffering in waves.

So we sat here, eating toast, engaged in our recovery.  And I think at one point, we both must have reached for the salt shaker at the same time, deeming our bacon or eggs not salted enough, and so we did, but we managed to glance hands and I looked up at her, my defences down because of the generalised hung over pain, her eyes puffy and red, as if the tears themselves were pollen on a sunny, hayfever-ridden day.
            “I, er – sorry.  You go first,” I said, and she took the salt, and used it, but something had altered in the air.  It had maybe been welling up for a while, certainly for the last two weeks, maybe for the last two years, maybe all the while, iteratively.  The facts, as they stand, are simple.  We had known each other a long time, years, having first met at a party and having some mutual friends.  She had been in a relationship and was just out of it.  I was in a relationship, and as I left mine, she resumed here, with the same man.  We continued circling the wagons, and we got on so well, and everything seemed easy around her.  But now here we were, brittle, the wagons on fire, stuttering our well-meanings and our well-mets over a plastic cruet set in North London, playing baby games in being deferential.
            “I’m done with the salt,” she said, eyes wide open, but, in reality, it had been in my wounds for too long.  I let my gaze fall to the table and resumed moving a bit of eggs around on the plate, loving it when it hit a pool of grease, and the movement was easy and it slid over the surface of things.

Published by gurdeepmattu

I’m an author and publisher. I live and work in London and am the author of “Sons and Fascination” (2011, Paperbooks). It's available here: http://amzn.to/eaTVCx

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