Tag Archives: love

Connection

“Do you want a hand with that ?” he asked nodding towards the case she’d wheeled up the aisle behind herself. She shook her head.

“It’s alright thanks, I can manage” she muttered as she picked it up and rose on tiptoes to place it on the overhead rack opposite his table. He watched her struggle, his eyes drawn to the small of her back, her jumper lifting as she stretched to reveal a small butterfly tattoo nestled against the curvature of her spine. He averted his eyes as she turned back towards him. “Anyone sitting in these ?” she asked pointing at the seats opposite him. He shook his head and she slid in next to the aisle, diagonally across from him, self consciously pulling at the bottom of her jumper, smoothing it down firmly with her hands as if aware that he’d been watching her. She folded her arms across her chest and stared out of the window. He considered complimenting her on the tattoo but then thought better of it and turned his attention back to his phone.

She gazed out of the window, briefly closing her eyes and enjoying the quiet of the carriage; it was a relief to be away from that snivelling, sniffing woman. Moving seats hadn’t changed the view though, static for the last fifteen minutes since the train had stopped. Hadn’t changed the view save she couldn’t look at it without also seeing her new travelling companion, either directly or in glimpses reflected back in the glass. Slouched, wedged against the corner of his seat and the window, he was tapping something out on his phone, both thumbs flying over the screen. Without staring more openly she could only catch snapshots of him, an impression. Short, sandy, untidy hair. Loosened tie. Turning a pen over and over between his fingers, hovered over an unopened note book. Face set in a frown, puzzled rather than sad.

He glanced up from his phone and looked directly at her. He smiled. She broke eye contact. Green eyes, mouth set in a firm line, long dark hair tied up in a ponytail. As she turned to look out of the window he noticed the line of her jaw, traced it down to her neck, exposed above the open ‘V’ of her jumper. The tannoy broke the silence. “We regret to inform you that we will be unable to move for up to an hour. Engineers are working as fast as possible to clear the other train from the line. Meanwhile, we ask for your patience. The buffet car is open.”

She sighed and looked at her watch before pulling a phone from her pocket. She prodded at it and sighed again.

“Sorry to bother you but I don’t suppose you’ve got a phone charger with you ?”

“Afraid not” he answered. “Looks like we’ve got different phones anyway. If you need to call someone about the delay you can borrow mine if you want.”

“Really ? Thanks, that’d be great. I just need to tell my parents that I’m running late.”

“Travelling home ?”

“Something like that.”

He passed her his phone and she made a brief call, turning her head and cupping her mouth behind her hand. No, you don’t need to pick me up. Really, I’m okay. Please don’t worry about doing anything for dinner, I’ll sort myself out. I’ll get a cab. She slid the phone back across the table, her long fingers ending in quick bitten nails, and sat back in her chair, rubbing her eyes.

“Long day ?” he asked. She nodded but didn’t reply. She’d moved seats looking for somewhere quiet, somewhere to think. In truth she’d spent most of the day thinking, running the same questions through her mind as she’d sat on various trains picking their way back from Paris, across London, and now up to her old family home in Peterborough. The same questions and no answers; just a sense of failure and disappointment. This journey home had never been part of the plan. She looked up at him again.

“I’m sorry. You must think I’m being really rude,” she offered. “It has been a long day. I’m travelling back from Paris.”

“No need to apologise, that sounds pretty tiring,” he said. There was a pause before he added. “I’m Jack by the way. Nice to meet you.”

“Thanks again for the phone, Jack. Nice to meet you too. I’m Kate.” She closed her eyes and leant her head back in the seat. “I am definitely tired.”

Jack continued to chat, just small talk about the delay and how busy it’d been in London earlier, and Kate, despite herself, began to respond. Just nods and demurrals of agreement at first but slowly she was drawn into conversation. He was easy company and she found that she’d missed the sound of her own language, missed conversation where there wasn’t that briefest of gaps between her thoughts and the translation. The fluency fraction. Or “fraction de la fluiditie” as she’d once tried to explain to a group of new, French friends, following a few too many glasses of wine, after the move to Paris. They’d laughed and one of them had poured her another glass. She’d spent the next six months with him.

“What would ‘sassy’ mean to you ?” said Jack, interrupting her thoughts.

“Sassy ?” said Kate. “Depends on the context I guess.”

“Okay” said Jack. “On a dating profile. I keep getting recommended women who are sassy, independent, and smart.” He held up the phone she’d borrowed earlier, open on a web page headed ‘Soul Mates’.

“You sure you can cope with that ?” asked Kate with a smile.

“Exactly ! No, I’m not” laughed Jack. “But sassy could mean all sorts of things. If it means someone who likes some lively banter then I might be alright but if it’s short hand for someone that’s high maintenance, with a biting tongue and a cruel wit then it’s a whole different matter.”

“I’m fairly sure no one who actually wanted a date would describe themselves as a high maintenance cruel wit with a biting tongue on their profile…”

“No, sure, but is that within the bounds of what it could mean ? That’s the question” mused Jack. “Is it a word you think you would use ?”

Kate let her gaze drift to the fields outside but could still see him in the glass, looking at her intently. Turning her head towards the window her own translucent reflection crept into view, mirroring how she felt: indistinct, dislocated, a little blurred round the edges. Sassy might have been a word she’d have used once, confident and sure in who she was, but now not so much. She wasn’t even sure she liked the word anymore. It was like feisty. Why was it only women who were ever sassy or feisty ? As if being lively and bold and confident were so beyond the boundaries of what was expected for a woman that there had to be special words ascribed to it. Spirited. That was another one. Feisty and spirited. Like a fucking horse or something. She turned back to Jack. “No, it’s not a word I think I’d use” she said. “I think it’s something people put because they think other people want to hear it.”

“Like everyone says they’ve got a great sense of humour ?” said Jack.

“Exactly like that” said Kate. “Or like everyone says they like taking long, romantic walks or visiting art galleries or keeping in shape or socializing with a wide circle of friends. It’s all shorthand isn’t it ? Here’s my profile: I am nice, cultured, physically fit and not a social pariah.”

“It’s the profile pictures that get me. Everyone’s a picture of health, permanently smiling, and radiating an air of calm contentment. Where are all the desperate selfies, tear smudged mascara or a dishevelled five day beard because you haven’t left the house for a week after your last relationship ended in the usual bitterness and recrimination ?”

“Oh you should definitely change your picture to one of those” said Kate. “Mascara would be a strong look for you.” Jack laughed and rubbed at the corner of his eye; Kate tilted her head and pulled at the back of her hair. “I particularly like the ones where it’s clearly a photo chopped in half. You know what I mean ?”

Jack nodded. “Where some old flame was in the frame before they were extinguished with a pair of scissors…”

“Can you extinguish something with scissors ?”

“Words were never really my thing” he acknowledged. “Maybe like this…” He flipped open the notepad that sat on the table between them and deftly sketched a fire extinguisher, a pair of scissors cutting through its short hose.

“A bit literal ?” frowned Kate.

“Everyone’s a critic ! How about this then ?” He drew a pair of candles, the first with flame flickering, suggested through a couple of spare, precise lines that almost made the static drawing dance. Beneath it he placed a closed pair of scissors with its handles elongated to look like a heart. The second candle’s wick was snipped, the flame now just a wisp of smoke, and the pair of scissors beneath it were open, heart-like handles pulled apart. Kate smiled, smoothing her hair again with her hand.

“That works. You’re good.”

“Thanks. Like I say, words were never really my thing. Probably why I never seem to get anywhere with this online dating thing.”

“You having trouble writing your profile ?”

“Something like that. Having trouble getting anyone to reply to my profile might be more accurate.”

“Read it to me” said Kate sitting forwards in her chair, resting her elbows on the table, chin in her hands. “Perhaps I can help.”

“It’s not very interesting. It just says: 28 year old man, slim, athletic build WLTM woman 25-35. Enjoys film, books, restaurants, and meeting up with friends.”

“WLTM ?”

“Would love to meet. I thought I should read it as written.”

“You forgot to mention that you’ve got a good sense of humour…”

“Let me finish ! Enjoys film, books, restaurants, and meeting up with friends. Has GSOH and is looking for someone fun and friendly.”

“GSOH, of course. Well, you sound nice enough” said Kate. “Doesn’t tell me much about you though. Not really about you.”

“You think it’s just stuff that I think other people want to hear ?”

“I don’t know. Is it ?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. I guess I’m banking on my photo to look suitably appealing on its own.”

“Is it one with an extinguished old flame ?” asked Kate picking up Jack’s drawings. He looked away and rubbed his hand through his hair, scratched at the back of his head. Kate put the paper back on the table and there was an awkward silence.

“What would yours say then ?” asked Jack eventually.

“My what ?” asked Kate.

“Your dating profile” said Jack. “I’m not saying you need one but if you had one and could strip out all of the clichés and the shorthand and the things we write to show people what we think they want to see then what would yours say ?”

“Ah I don’t know if I want to do that” sighed Kate. She felt like all that was left was cliche. Mid twenties – who was she kidding, nearly late twenties – and moving back in with her parents because the great Parisienne dream had turned into a nightmare. What was left to say ? I had everything I thought I wanted ? It all turned to merde ?

“Come on. A pure blast of truth. You’ll probably never see me again so just use it as an opportunity to say what you always wanted to say.” Kate looked slightly bemused now as Jack cajoled her. “Tell you what. I’ll do mine too. What’s the worst that could happen ? I’ll show you mine if you show me yours…”

“Really ?” said Kate in mock exasperation. “Are we going to play doctors’ and nurses’ as well ?”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves” said Jack. “I might not like your profile.”

“Just shut up and give me some of that paper” relented Kate. Perhaps it would help to write it down. A different way of thinking it through. “If we’re going to do this then let’s do it properly. Some quiet so I can write something down and then we can share and get it over with.”

 They sat in silence for a while writing or staring out of the window, pens poised between teeth, lost in thought. Occasionally one of them would catch the other’s eye and they’d smile, look away and return to the task at hand. Kate’s page filled up quickly, thoughts spilling out from her, whereas Jack doodled and dawdled, scratching out halting sentences before he had finished them. As he put a line through another false start he tossed his pen back onto the table and announced that he was going to get a coffee. Kate shook her head when he asked if she wanted anything.

Jack picked his way up the carriage towards the buffet car, tapping the tops of seats as he passed them until he inadvertently brushed against someone’s head. Muttering an apology he quickened his step and concentrated on the task at hand. She was distracting. In a good way. Why had he suggested this ridiculous let’s reveal our true selves game ? There was a reason his profile description was so ordinary: he was ordinary. Now she was going to find that out: scratch below the surface and discover that there’s only surface. Should have just kept it light and seen what happened.

Jack bought his coffee, returned to his seat and started emptying sugar into his cup. “We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to” he said to Kate, noting that she had now filled most of her paper.

“No, I’m ready. No backing out now.” Kate grinned at him and snatched up what she’d written, eager to get going. What the hell. Maybe it would be liberating. Maybe it’d just be a bit of fun to pass the time while they were delayed but, either way, like he’d said, they wouldn’t see each other again so what did it matter ? “Let’s start with this. I have a tattoo. It’s a butterfly in the small of my back. It’ll sound corny but it was supposed to be a reminder to myself that beauty can be transient and fleeting – a reminder to appreciate things whilst they’re here. Not many people get to see it but occasionally, if it’s accidentally on show I catch them looking at it and wonder if they’re just checking out my arse.” She looked pointedly at Jack who had the grace to look sheepish.

“You have a great tattoo” he offered. “And I thought everyone said ass these days anyway ?” Kate raised her eyebrows in mild rebuke before gesturing back at her paper.

“Shall I continue ?”

“Please do” said Jack. “I won’t say another word.”

“Particularly about my very British arsesaid Kate. “An ass is a donkey you great…”

“Donkey ?” offered Jack.

“Yes, you great donkey” agreed Kate. “Baudet”

“Baudet ?”

“Oh, sorry. It’s donkey in French. I do that sometimes. Must still be half there I guess. So, you really want to carry on with this ?” Kate looked down again at what she’d written out, Jack nodded his assent and so she continued. “I’m pretty smart. I know, I know, I guess no one ‘fesses up to being stupid on one of these profiles but I’m really not. Straight A student. Double first at Cambridge in Modern and Medieval Languages. Pretty smart and yet on my way back home to my parents. I quit my job at the Louvre. The Louvre ! Imagine that, imagine spending three years studying French and a year studying Art History and then getting a job at the Louvre. Well I had that but I quit and now I’ve got no idea what I’m doing, I’ve got nothing to go back home for, and I don’t know what I want to do.” Kate paused, looking again at what she’d been writing for the past twenty minutes. “I didn’t write all that you know.”

“What did you write ?” asked Jack.

“I just wrote ‘pretty smart but pretty stupid’” said Kate.

“I don’t think it’s stupid to be unsure” said Jack. “I think you’re allowed some time to figure it out.”

Kate shrugged and looked back at her paper. “Perhaps. It just seemed easier before I guess.”

Jack tilted his head, listening. “Before ?”

“You know. School. College…”

“Ah I see” said Jack. “Before real life you mean.”

Kate laughed. “Exactly. It was easier. It felt like a series of clearly marked destinations.” She paused, flipped her paper over and drew a circle on the blank page. “Here, your next stop is GCSEs, and here” she sketched a straight line to another circle “A levels and on and on.” She continued the line, idly tracing more circles along its trajectory, until stopping in the middle of the page. “Then what ?”

“Look at all the blank paper” said Jack. “Exciting.”

“It’s terrifying” said Kate. “There’s no lines. No pre determined destinations.”

“I think it’s okay to get a little lost for a while. Explore.” said Jack. “You’re super smart – in two languages – so what if you don’t know what to do with your life ?”

“Oui. Nous ne savons pas ce que nous voulons et pourtant nous sommes responsables de ce que nous sommes – qui est le fait.”

“I’ll have to take your word for it. I think I need to know more though if I’m going to choose your profile by the way. Particularly if I can’t always understand what you’re saying.”

“Who said you’d get the chance to choose ?”

“Humour me.”

“I thought I was.” Kate flipped her paper back over and started to read again. “So this is me: I think too much and like to make plans, sometimes I wonder what it’d be like to be a little more spontaneous.”

“Swapping pretend dating profiles with a complete stranger on a train seems pretty spontaneous” suggested Jack.

“It’s pretty something” said Kate. “Maybe unhinged would be a better word for it.”

“There’s a fine line between spontaneous and crazy I guess.”

“So it seems. What does yours say anyway ?”

“You’re not finished” protested Jack.

“I’m being spontaneous. Tell me a bit about you and then I’ll finish mine.”

“Okay,” shrugged Jack with a grin. “But be gentle with me, I’m not used to baring my soul like this.”

“I bet you say that to all the girls.”

Jack picked up his paper with a dramatic flourish and made an exaggerated point of clearing his throat. It was all show before he felt ready to tell. He was nervous for the first time since they’d started talking. He began reading what he’d written, some stuff about films he liked, music he listened to, books he’d read, before putting his paper down again.

 You know what ? Like I said earlier words aren’t really my thing. Not written down at least. I could sit here and tell you about these things that I love but they’re all just another mask, aren’t they ? Borrowed identity. Just a different kind of way of telling people what they might want to hear.”

“So tell me about you without that stuff” said Kate. “I really want to know.”

“There’s really not that much to tell. Maybe that’s why I just churned out a list of cool sounding stuff so that you can make a judgement about me based on the things I like, not the things I do or the person I am.” Jack frowned and pressed his palms against his temples, rubbed at his head as if it would smooth out the creases on his brow. “I don’t know why this is so hard. It’s just kind of mundane I guess. I like to draw. No, scratch that, I love to draw. It’s all I’ve ever really wanted to do, since I was a kid. I used to fill up pages and pages of sketches and pictures.” He gestured at the pad in front of him. “Now I carry a note book round but never put anything in it. The odd doodle but nothing that means anything to me anymore.”

“So tell me about that. Why’d you stop ?”

“My dad used to say something to me,” said Jack. “The only thing you should be worrying about drawing is your pension… and those scribbles won’t give you one of those. That was the sum total of his advice to me. All the time growing up, made me feel it was worthless, wanted me to get a ‘proper job’. I don’t really blame him, you know ? He was just trying to look out for me in the way he thought was best but it just killed that spark in me that made me want to draw. Didn’t seem like there was a reason to do it anymore. You know what the worst of it is ?” Kate shook her head. “The worst of it is that I let it happen, let that part of me go and just stopped. Went to study and became a tax accountant instead. Don’t judge me.”

“Too late for that,” replied Kate gently. “Not about the accountancy thing though. I was a tour guide in an art gallery so I’m not about to starting throwing career choice stones from my ever so glass house.”

“Glass pyramid” smiled Jack. “It’s a big glass pyramid at the Louvre” he added noting Kate’s slightly quizzical look.

“Glass and metal actually. Designed by I M Pei and consisting of 603 rhombus shaped segments and 70 triangular ones… I can tell you anything you want to know about that pyramid. Its history, what it’s for, that ‘Da Vinci Code’ bullshit about it having 666 panes. All this stuff I learned by rote when I was there, churned out to tick-list tourists on a daily basis, but I couldn’t tell you how it made me feel anymore. None of it. The pyramid. The paintings. The sculpture.”

“But you were doing what you loved,” protested Jack. “Not like me.”

“I thought I was” said Kate. “Somewhere along the way I forgot how to see things I think. Forgot why I wanted to be there in the first place. A couple of weeks ago I found myself staring at ‘Diana of Versailles’…”

“Your co-workers had some pretty fancy names…”

“It’s a statue you arse. I love that piece. It’s a depiction of Artemis…” Jack looked blank. “Artemis ? No ? Really ? Looks like I’ve got some serious work to do educating you. She was the Greek goddess of the hunt. The Romans called her Diana and she was originally installed at the palace of Versailles.”

“Hence the name.”

“You’re catching on. In the statue she looks so strong and sure, focused exactly on what she’s doing. All poise and purpose. Pulling an arrow from the quiver on her back. It’s what I’d describe to the tourists as a perfect marriage of form and function. Don’t laugh but I used to stare at pictures of her when I was studying and I found it… I don’t know, I guess I found it inspiring. I wanted more than anything to see her for real and eventually I got to do that every day. But then, the other week, I was staring at her again and it was just a slab. Just cold stone.”

“Maybe she just became too familiar ? Like wallpaper ?”

“I don’t think it’s that. Honestly ? You wanted honest, right ? Some things went sour for me in Paris. No great drama I guess in the scheme of things. A relationship that went wrong and a life that was built on that – his friends, his city, his flat. It all felt like it was falling apart. Somewhere along the way I forgot why I was there. I forgot about myself. Diana didn’t change, I just stopped seeing myself in her anymore.”

“I kind of get that” said Jack. “I stopped seeing myself as someone who drew, forgot about chasing that thing I loved and built my life on all that advice my dad gave me. Made something of myself. But you lose something as well when you follow a track someone else lays down for you.”

 The tannoy interrupted them. “We apologise for the delay. The broken-down train has just been moved out of Huntingdon station. Due to the length of time we have been stationary, we will be making an unscheduled stop at Huntingdon. Any passengers wishing to alight there should prepare to do so.”

Jack sat up straight in his seat and leaned forwards.

“Let’s get off the train, go for a drink.”

“Woah there crazy man. What are you talking about ?”

“Come on Kate. Live a little. Do something that wasn’t in the plan.” Jack was laughing now and sank back into his seat. “I’m done with staying on track for a while. I’m going to go and see what Huntingdon has to offer. I know it’s not exactly Paris but it’ll be fun.”

“You’re kidding, right ?”

“No, I’m serious. You and me. I’d love to keep talking to you. It’ll be like.. like…” He tilted his head and looked up at the ceiling, searching for some filed away information. “What was that film where two people got off a train and spent the night walking round some city ?”

“Before Sunrise ?” answered Kate. “Ethan Hawke. Julie Delpy. You know the city was Paris though. I’m not sure it would have been made if they’d decided to grab a drink in Huntingdon.” She shook her head, smiling. “I’m no one’s idea of Julie Delpy either.”

“I bet you are. Back when you used to think you were Diana of whatsit…”

“Versailles”

“Diana of Versailles. Form and function. Poise and purpose. I bet you are. Anyway I’m no Ethan Hawke” conceded Jack. “But you know what ? That’s not the point. It doesn’t matter where it is or who we’re not. It matters who we are. Who we might be. And you don’t get to find that out by spending your life sitting on a train with a fixed destination. Sometimes you need to get off and change the journey.”

“You’re pretty pleased with that metaphor, aren’t you ?”

“Not bad for someone who’s not good with words” said Jack.

Kate shook her head again, still smiling at him despite herself. She pushed up from the table and made an excuse, told him that she needed to use the ladies. In truth she needed a moment to draw breath. Jack’s offer had caught her by surprise; she was flattered and excited. There was an honesty about him that she was drawn to but which scared her. It had only been a couple of months since things with Francois had imploded, a terse exchange on the Metro at Invalides after she’d found the messages on his phone and it was all done. Broken at Invalides. The irony hadn’t escaped her. Their first date after that night they’d met he’d taken her to Sacre Coeur in the evening and they’d stood on the steps looking down over the city. It had been just how she’d imagined it, just how she’d assumed it would go when she moved to Paris, and it had all been a lie.

She slipped into the cubicle at the end of the carriage and closed the door. The seat was down and she sat on it resting her head in her hands, elbows on knees and began to cry. From laughter in the city of lights to sobbing in a train toilet in the space of six wasted months. Kate tore off a piece of tissue and dabbed her eyes, watched as her tears soaked into the paper. At least she hadn’t bothered with mascara today so she wouldn’t end up looking like one of those imagined profile pictures that Jack had been talking about earlier. What was it he’d said ? Smudged and disheveled ? That felt about right. Her thoughts strayed back to him and she smiled sadly. Why did she have to meet him now ? Before she’d had time to work out what she wanted. Now that she’d walked away from what she’d spent years thinking she wanted; everything she’d worked for and planned. She needed to think. Needed a new plan.

……

Jack stood up and shuffled out to the aisle as the train slowed on its approach to Huntingdon. He pushed his phone into the pocket of his jeans and leant back over the table to pick up his sketch book. Kate watched him.

“It was really good to meet you” said Jack extending his hand slightly awkwardly. “Are you sure you don’t want that walk round Huntingdon ? Or a drink ?” Kate took his hand, met his firm grip with her own and shook her head gently.

“I’m sorry Jack. I just don’t think I can right now. Plan was to get back home and you know I do like a plan…” Her voice trailed off and she shrugged apologetically. “It was lovely to meet you too though. Really, it was.”

“By the way, that thing you said earlier, in French ? I liked hearing you speak like that. What did it mean ?”

“Oh that. It meant ‘we do not know what we want and yet we are responsible for what we are – that is the fact’” answered Kate. “It’s Sartre. Told you I think too much.”

“Deep,” grinned Jack. “Listen, for what it’s worth, I think that what you are is working out just fine. Don’t worry so much about what you want. Try some stuff, see what happens. Like I said, good to meet you Kate.” He smiled at her, turned and made his way up the carriage to the doors. The train slowed, edging up the platform, and Kate pulled her eyes away from his retreating back and down at the table. He’d left his profile behind, a single piece of paper covered in his small, spidery handwriting. Kate picked it up with a rueful smile, turning it over in her hands. On the back was a drawing. In deft, firm pen strokes Jack had sketched her face, she was smiling and a shower of butterflies surrounded her head. Underneath it he’d written ‘don’t leave reminders to yourself where you can’t see them, life is fleeting, don’t forget’.

The tannoy crackled again. “This is Huntingdon. Will passengers leaving the train here please make sure they have all their belongings with them.”

……

Jack had taken a couple of strides away from the train when he heard a bang behind him and the hiss of the automatic door opening again. He looked back over his shoulder and saw that someone must have wedged their bag into the gap as the door had been closing.

“You didn’t get the butterflies right” said Kate as she stepped down onto the platform.

“Well I didn’t get to look at it for very long” replied Jack, hurrying to help with her bag.

“Don’t get any ideas mister. Let’s just start with that drink.”

……

 

Advertisements

Reunion (reprise)

You look surprised to see me and maybe even a little embarrassed. Perhaps she hadn’t told you that I might be coming. Most of all you look older. I know that’s a stupid thing to say after nine years but it’s what strikes me the most; you’ve hastened your hair’s natural retreat by cropping it back and it’s fading to grey. You’re carrying more weight now. Not a tummy exactly but everything’s a little looser, I have to work at making out the line of your jaw. I suppose that if we’d seen each other more often – or at all – then the change wouldn’t be so marked. I can see how the increments would have accumulated over time, I just get to see all of them unfolded at once. It’s enough to send me to the toilets so that I can find a mirror, try to see what the impact of nine years has had on my own face. I can’t judge. I’m too used to seeing it every day and it’s been a long time since I was the person that you knew who peeked up and out from under a fringe. I think I used to hide behind it in the hope of being found. I don’t hide anymore and I’m not looking to be found.

When we talk it’s less awkward than I’d expected. There’s a moment as we meet when the slightest inclination of your head suggests that, maybe on auto-pilot, you’re thinking of greeting me with one of those cheek brushes that seems to have become the standard in our 30s. The older we get the less contact we seem to want. In our 20s it was all hugs and embraces. And, for me and you, the tango of course but it’s a long time since I did any dancing. I shift backwards slightly and offer my hand. Less contact. We touch and I remember the softness of your skin.

When you meet back up with someone after a long absence there’s only really two places the conversation can go. What are you up to now or do you remember when…? We start with the now and keep it light; you’re working up in Harrow, a tech start up that I didn’t catch the name of, and I’m dividing my time between travelling and freelancing, sometimes combining the two. Writing about jazz clubs ? You offer it with a tentative smile, a cautious prod at the thin ice covering the deep waters that are our former lives together. You were always good at that. Finding ways to get me to open up, unlocking the private chambers of my heart, leavening and lightening my seriousness without belittling it. You wouldn’t have let ‘private chambers’ pass without a gag either. I catch myself missing that. Missing the fun we had, even when it was innuendo and bad puns. Writing about jazz clubs. You know me too well. I haven’t really changed. And he nods, sadly, and says: no, no you haven’t. 

We’re saved from our small talk by the arrival of the cake. Mike’s carrying it in, thirty five candles flickering and illuminating Sally’s name spelled out in icing. I knew that there’d been a similarly large celebration at her 30th but I’d been out of the country, it was the summer I spent in New Orleans. She’d never been one to pass up a party and this gathering had been billed as the warm up event for her 40th. It wasn’t clear if her and Mike were planning to do this every year but I already knew this’d be the last time I saw them. I didn’t know how I’d feel when I saw her again. Watching her about to blow out the candles, the flames dancing under her easy smile, I could see why it had happened. She’d been a pretty girl and now she was an attractive woman, lively and confident and larger-than-life. The size of her personality was still in inverse proportion to her dress size. I don’t know whether she’d ever told Mike but something about the way they are together, the way he still tracks her movements around the room, rests his hand lightly around her waist when they’re close, makes me think that she never did. Maybe she never thought it was a big deal. Better to hide the truth to stop people from getting hurt; it was just a drunken mistake.

I can clearly remember when you told me. That morning in the kitchen in the flat. Things hadn’t been great for a while but the connection between us held fast. A little frayed but it held. I don’t think either of us really knew how we were going to resurrect what we’d had at the beginning but if you’d asked us then I think we’d have said we wanted to. We were incandescent falling in love but didn’t know what to do when the boil settled to a simmer. Maybe we’d have found the right ways and the right moments to turn the heat back up if we’d had more time. I slept with Sally. Four words that took three seconds to say between two people and to break one heart. I slept with… You were half way through saying it again, tears forming in your eyes, but I didn’t hear it. I was shaking my head, trying to dislodge the words. You stepped towards me extending your arms, saying you were sorry over and over and over again, but for each step you took forwards I took one away until my back bumped against the front door. It was our last tango. I held onto my tears until I’d slipped out the door and fled to the street.

I wound up on Shepherd’s Bush Green sobbing on a bench until some homeless guy offered me a swig from his last Special Brew. Looking back there was something blackly funny about it I suppose. Perhaps I should have invited him to sit down, maybe we could have gotten drunk and duetted on some power ballads, howling incoherently at the early risers and late finishers making their way across the park. He looked a bit like Meatloaf and I had enough mascara smudged around my eyes that I could’ve passed as that witchy woman he sometimes sings with. Anything for love but we won’t do that. Instead I smile at him, decline the proffered can, and ask if he’s okay. We chat for a bit and I give him some change for a coffee or something. I’ve seen enough bad movies that I was half expecting him to turn out to be a philosophy lecturer down on his luck offering up wisdom for the lost, or an angel testing people to see if they’re worth saving, or a lonely multi millionaire in disguise, waiting for the right person to bestow his fortune on. The best he offers is “people aren’t reliable, you can’t trust them” before he shuffles off across the Green towards the Off License.

Sally leans forwards and chases the flickering flames across the cake with the most extravagant exhale she can muster. She gets them all bar two. Thirty three candles marked now by a smudge of black smoke slowly rising into the air and two that stubbornly still burn. I look up and you’re staring at me. I hold your gaze as Sally swoops on the final pair, snuffing them out with another quick puff of air. Each reduces to a glow, like an echo of the fire they once were, and are then extinguished.

Disunion (her)

I was aware it was happening but I didn’t know what to do about it. I hesitate to use an analogy from jazz – because I know you don’t like jazz – but there’s sometimes a moment in an extended piece, in an improvisation, when the players realise that they’ve lost the spark of what they were doing. They’re still producing notes, occasionally riffing back on refrains that previously worked, but something has changed and the music has gone stale. I’m finding myself reaching for sequences that have always served me well before. I can be your art loving, free spirited traveller if that’s what you want me to be. I can be your serious talker; setting the world to rights, musing on the impermanence of things, and arguing the toss over the voice over in Bladerunner. I still can’t believe you thought I was serious about that. Give me some credit: nobody thinks it needs the voice over. Maybe if things were different we could have a real discussion about that unicorn dream sequence though. Is that the trouble now ? I used to be all of those things but I used to be funny as well. And I used to be just me. Not a version of me that was for you but just me. In fact, I was never more me than those first few months that I was with you.

So I knew something had shifted. If we’d have been having dates at the beginning like we were having dates now then we’d have never made it this far. There was something there still between us but it wasn’t enough. We were waiting for someone to telegraph a concluding descending scale so that we could clumsily end our improvisation. A cue for the song to finish. There would be no polite applause. Who am I kidding ? Impromptu musical jams might end like that but relationships don’t. It would be more likely that one of us would hurl our instrument to the floor and exit stage right leaving a squall of feedback in our wake, the other left alone on stage blinking in the spotlight. Part of me wishes that one of us would. It’d be better than this drawn out decline.

You’re out again. I think you were meeting up with Mike and Sally and I guess you’ll end up treading your familiar route from The Adelaide into the West End. Recently you’ve been trying to persuade me to come to some 90s night at the Borderline so maybe you’re there. I didn’t really fall for Britpop the first time round so I’m not sure that nostalgia is going to lend it anything emotionally for me this time round. You were babbling about how you’d had a drunken moment of clarity the week before during “Live Forever”. We see things they’ll never see. That’s us, you declared. Me and Mike and Sally. I wasn’t sure which “me” you’d meant. I didn’t see those things that they, apparently, will never see so I wasn’t convinced it was me you meant in your boozey epiphany. But I did remember when we – just me and you – did see things that no-one else saw. When we were so in tune that we could sit in a group, noise and chatter flying about us, and we’d exchange a glance, the slightest look, and each other instantly knew what the other thought.

You’re out and I’m home and I’m mainlining power ballads like some Bridget Jones cliche. I’m a lousy drinker when I’m on my own but I’ve made an effort with a makeshift cosmopolitan. There’s no triple sec so, technically, it’s vodka and cranberry juice but that just seems slightly pitiful. Sitting home alone drinking vodka cranberry is for losers but sitting home alone making cosmoplitans  is a different thing entirely. I’ve even got one of those little umbrellas. I can toast our demise with a degree of class. And various love lorn anthems. I’m giving a full throated if slightly off pitch rendition of “Total Eclipse Of The Heart” when upstairs bang on their floor in irritation and I have my own moment of clarity: I’m through half a bottle of vodka, enough cranberry juice to permanently cure all cystitis in West London, and murdering Bonnie Tyler. I crawl to bed.

You’re not there, not even in traces, the usual faint residual scent of you absent on your pillow. I washed the sheets and now I wished that I hadn’t. I miss you.

 

Disunion (him)

I wasn’t sure if you were pissed off because I didn’t want to come with you to Prague or pissed off that I didn’t want to look at throws in Ikea. Or it could have been the sheets again: you hated it when the smell of my Saturday night seeped its way into your Sunday morning. Lately, after a big night, I’d been crashing at Mike and Sally’s. You said you didn’t mind; I don’t remember when you stopped coming out with us. We tried to mix it up a bit, early on. Did things you were into. Ronnie Scott’s and piano bars and films on the South Bank, earnest discussions about the transient nature of things after we saw “Remains of The Day” with groups of men in roll neck sweaters and goatees and women styled exclusively in black: black hair, black nails, black clothes. (I was dying for the BFI to put on “Spinal Tap” just to see if the usual crowd showed up. I would have had a field day). Mono no aware. I got it. I just didn’t want to watch an entire festival of Japanese anime or another Ishiguro adaptation to reflect on it further. There’s only so much cherry blossom I need in my life. I wanted to stop standing around talking about how melancholy we all were, all are, and to get out there and live a little.

I’m guessing it was Prague. There was some piece you’d read in the Guardian on one of those long Sunday mornings with the supplements that listed the ten best jazz clubs in Europe. You’d seemed quite excited about it, started telling me about this place called Reduta, and how we should go. I think I made a vague noise to signal that I was listening which must’ve been lost in translation as next thing I know you’re checking flights on Skyscanner. The row didn’t start until you were asking me for my passport number. I tried to explain my whole thing with airports again – the apprehension, the stress, the people – but I’m not sure you believed me. I guess it does sound a bit weak, a bit like someone just making some shit up to avoid your European city break. It was true though. I couldn’t really handle airports. I’m an okay flier, it’s not that. It’s the anticipation of it. There’s just something funny that happens in my head when I have to queue up with hundreds of people to check that none of us are going to blow each other up. You said it was bullshit and went with some old friend instead.

I like London. I don’t really need anywhere else and I couldn’t understand your need to explore. To be honest it was even narrower than that. I liked specific bits of London. Three or four dirty clubs, usually down some half hidden set of stairs off a street in Soho and usually the sort of place you didn’t worry too much about why your feet stuck to the floor. A couple of pubs. Proud Mary’s for coffee and an unfussy breakfast. And The Gate serviced all of my re-run cinema needs. That was pretty much it and it was enough for me. I could live a little in my little corner of London. But it wasn’t enough for you. At first we at least shared The Gate together and you’d tagged along on my semi regular afternoon excursions, laughing as I puffed a hurried joint as we walked into Notting Hill. It was cheaper to go the The Gate and chemically enhance the experience than mess about with a Multiplex. You always declined when I offered you the roll up although we used to share a smoke sometimes curled up in bed late at night listening to Jeff Buckley. I think that was as close as we got musically. Enough blue notes for you and enough distortion for me. That was when we seemed happiest though, watching tendrils of smoke curl to the ceiling before you’d nudge your head into my neck and ask if I wanted to dance. That was your code for sex. You always thought it sounded more romantic and I guess it did. We’d dance whilst Jeff crooned “Hallelujah” and, on a good night, “Lover You Should’ve Come Over” as our soundtrack in the background, our rising sighs eventually eclipsing his.

I had this idea of us when we started out. The idea us would catch a tube up to Queensway, walk through Hyde Park, dodge the tourists visiting Diana’s memorial. We’d pull our coat collars up against the cold, you’d slip your hand into mine inside my pocket and drag me down to the gallery at the Serpentine. You’d try not to laugh as I gave my considered judgements on whatever exhibition was running. I’d try to pretend I wasn’t impressed, moved even, by your reflections on the art. You understood that stuff but you wore it lightly; it was all bluff with me. Then we’d walk past the lake, if it was really cold there’d be fog rising where the water touched the bank and we’d head down towards it. I liked to imagine us as two translucent figures disappearing from view, suspended in the magical mist. Mono no aware. I guess I’m not immune after all. As the afternoon faded we’d mooch over towards Mayfair, waltz into one of the big hotels like we belonged and settle in for the early evening; drinking cocktails we couldn’t really afford. Like we were just about to pass “go” and the two hundred pounds was coming. Then we’d find a quiet restaurant up on the outskirts of Soho, talk into the night, before heading home on the tube. We’d put on Jeff, share a smoke, and then dance ourselves to sleep. That was the idea of us and, for the longest time, that was the reality of us.

You used to say that love was like the bit in the middle of one of those circle pictures we used to do in maths. What do you call them ? Venn diagrams. The middle was the bit where we overlap. We don’t spend so much time in each other’s circle anymore.

 

Communion

We all fall in love sometimes.

“Why’d you ask me back that night ?” He was playing with her hair, she was lying back across their sofa, head in his lap.

“I didn’t ask you back. Sally did. She’s always doing stuff like that. Just trying to speed things up, that’s what she usually calls it.”

“That’s not how I remember it. In the club, you asked me. I made you repeat it because I wanted you to lean in closer to me. I thought maybe you were just looking out for Sally, didn’t want her to have to go back with Mike on her own or maybe…” He played out a length of hair between finger and thumb, let it fall back across her cheek.

“Really ? Before the street tango ?” She shifted, pushing up onto an elbow, twisted her head to look up at him.

“Yeah, before I taught you to dance…”

“As if, twinkletoes. And, yeah, maybe I wanted to keep talking.” She paused, rolled her eyes up to look at the ceiling, slumped back into his lap. “Really ? I asked you ?”

Time doesn’t pass as a constant. It stretches and slows in the heady rush of the fall, snaps back to speed when reality intrudes. They’d been stretched out in their own little bubble of time for what felt like weeks, months, years. Enough time to open up the deep seams in the mines of each other’s hearts. Enough time to compress what they found and shared there into something precious: they surfaced something hard and pure and unbreakable from their core. That’s how it felt inside the bubble. Like they were perpetually on London Underground time: next train in two minutes but no train ever arrived. Always two minutes. If you could have watched the bubble, timed them on that imaginary platform of artificial time, you’d have only been there ten days. They’d spent every one of those ten together. Time’s not constant. They believed, in the bubble, that love was.

We all fall in love sometimes.

“What do you want to do ?” she asked suddenly, looking up at him, pushing her fringe out of her eyes.

“What now ? This afternoon ? They’re showing Bladerunner at The Gate. I’d be up for catching that if you fancy it.”

“No, I didn’t mean today,” she said. “What do you want to do about us ?”

“What do I want do about us ? I didn’t realise I got to decide all of that…” he said, smiling.

“Well, okay, I see what you mean. I didn’t phrase it very well. I mean…”

“How do I feel about you ?” he interrupted gently.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “I guess that’s what I was asking.”

Silence isn’t always empty. It has shape and weight when felt by two people connected by the terror of sharing their deepest vulnerability, and that weight changes and lifts as relief replaces the terror. The recognition that the prickly, discomforting swell of feeling in your guts is matched by its source. Butterflies seem to dance effortlessly except when they’re in your stomach. They’d both figured it out within a day of meeting, maybe even that first night, but neither would commit to giving it a name, giving it voice. Even inside the bubble.

“I… God, it feels so soon and I didn’t want to scare you but…” He tips his head back and picks out shapes in the cracks in the ceiling. Like the lines astronomers draw to show constellations but without the stars. A route map through the heavens. He measures each word carefully in his head. There’s Pegasus. That could be Orion. Just say it. If that’s Orion then the North Star would be just there. Say the words. My North Star. “I’m falling in love with you.”

She smiles and sits up. Leans over to kiss him on the cheek. Puts her arms around him. “Good. Because I’m falling in love with you too and I don’t want to do it on my own.”

The silence that settled now, as they embraced, holding each other fiercely, wasn’t empty. It carried the weight of the words spoken out loud, the sound long gone but the meaning, the implications, lingering, and it carried the weight of all their hopes, their fears, and their dreams. Silence isn’t empty. And they believed that love wasn’t either.

We all fall in love sometimes.

Union (her)

We had met before. I thought so anyway although you didn’t seem so sure. It had been at some mutual acquaintance’s house party just after I touched back down in London. I guess I might have come off as a little moody, everything had just seemed smaller somehow – narrower – than the possibilities of travel. I think Sally had introduced us and she probably didn’t help. She knew you from the crowd at the pub and presumably at some point you’d had a conversation about books as she pointed at you, declared that you were reading Kerouac’s “On The Road”, and then pointed at me and said “just back from travelling” before leaving us to work it out. (I’d known Sally a long time and talking to men about books was pretty much her default chat up approach: a shortcut to gauge taste, intelligence, and sensitivity quickly according to her although that didn’t quite square with the number of blokes she seemed to end up in bed with who hadn’t made it beyond Andy McNab and Dan Brown. I assumed either Kerouac or you hadn’t done it for her). Anyway we awkwardly shook hands – you had soft hands – and I said some stuff about Bolivia that always sounded better in my head and you said some stuff about Sal Paradise which I nodded at, not wanting to admit that I’d never made it past the first twenty pages of “On The Road”. Sparks didn’t fly. I wasn’t surprised you couldn’t place me. I remembered your hands. I didn’t feel that would be the right thing to say now.

There were a few of us catching up in some bar in Soho. I was enjoying it. It was quiet enough to talk but occasionally a snatch of “Sketches Of Spain” would float across the room from a hidden speaker. If I looked over my shoulder, back to the bar, I could see us reflected in the mirror between the optics. Maybe it was the drink but in reflected candlelight, filtered through stacked glasses and half empty spirit bottles, we looked kind of glamorous: a snapshot of how I always imagined living in London in my 20s would be. I teased my fringe, tried to find the right balance between hiding my eyes and being able to see, and it was then that I saw you looking at me. I don’t think you realised I knew. You were watching me directly, I could see you in the mirror. You were smiling. You had a soft smile.

I didn’t really enjoy the club and if I hadn’t have been staying at Sally’s I probably would have cried off. It was too loud, some crappy three chord wannabes were on stage and I missed being able to hear you. We’d talked in the bar. Not chatted; talked. I guess it had started as small talk, getting all that “have we met ? yes I think we’ve met. are you sure ? I think I would have remembered” stuff out of the way before settling into conversation. You were serious but there was a lightness to it, you always skewered yourself when you thought you were getting pretentious. And you were funny. Not that overbearing blokey version of funny where everything has to be banter, just, I don’t know, just dry and self deprecating and funny. I knew I was laughing enough and running my fingers through my hair enough that Sally would notice. She didn’t disappoint, chasing me into the toilets for an interrogation before making several indelicate comments about what she was planning to do with Mike later. I hadn’t met him yet. She chastised me: “that’s because you’ve been talking to the same guy all night”. And then: “want me to invite him back with us ?”

I didn’t get much say in it in the end. Sally did what she figured was best and next thing I knew we were spilling out of the warmth of the club, static hiss buzzing in our ears, and on to the street. I felt that fresh air head rush, an oxygen and vodka kick, and turned to see you wrapping yourself around a lamp-post. I thought you were propping yourself up but eventually clocked that you were showing me what you thought was an Argentine tango. I grabbed you and showed you the basic step, felt you tighten as my foot found the back of your leg. Felt your soft hands. Watched your soft smile. I think we might have kissed then if Sally hadn’t yelled that we needed to get our dancing asses into the cab.

Back at the flat Sally had long since pulled her literature to lover trick and was subjecting Mike to all of the things she’d described to me earlier. As far as we could tell Mike seemed okay with it. We talked and I realised that nothing would happen unless I moved first. I think that was one of the reasons I felt myself fall for you a little that night. There was never any presumption. You seemed serious again, vulnerable even. There was a tension between us now, when it had been so easy before, that would only be broken if that soft smile from those soft lips relinquished themselves in a soft kiss. I moved towards you. Eyes closed, hands touched, it started.

 

Union (him)

“We’re going on to Sally’s.”

It’s noisy in the club. Some band I didn’t catch the name of are hacking their way through The Jam’s “Start!” and our group, gathered loosely at the bar, are shouting to be heard over them. It’s noisy but I heard you clearly. I pretend I didn’t, exaggerate a cupped ear, point towards the band, and shrug. I just wanted to feel you lean in closer, feel your breath on my ear, smell the faint trace of perfume mixed with lemon vodka. You take a step in towards me and lightly rest your fingers on my arm. As you rise slightly on the balls of your feet to close the gap I catch a flash of green eyes hidden somewhere under layers of fringe and mascara. You smile.

“We’re going on to Sally’s. After this. If you wanted to come along then that’d be cool.”

It’s noisy in the cab. I don’t remember who flagged it down but I guess maybe Sally or Mike had sorted it out whilst we were talking on the pavement. You were telling me about backpacking through South America and wanting to learn the Argentine tango. I’d hooked my leg round the back of a lamp-post and thrown my head back with a triumphant “ole”. You’d laughed and pulled me into a dance hold – “not like that, like this” – and I felt your heel slide up the back of my thigh. I stared at you until you broke eye contact, shook your head laughing, and said: “Ole is Flamenco, twinkle toes.” The cab’s running through the main arteries of the city, taking us away from its heart. As the pulse of the night dims the more I become aware of my own. The windows fog up and I sketch a smiley before wiping it clean so I can try to see your reflection in the glass. You’re on the pull down seat opposite listening to Sally talk about the time she met Sister Bliss from Faithless. I’ve heard it before. The cabbie’s got the radio on and “God Save The Queen” rattles out of the speakers just as we turn up The Mall, circling the Palace. Me and Mike join in with a loud rendition as the girls try and drown us out with the national anthem. Fascist regime. Send her victorious. We mean it man. Long to reign o’er us. No future, no future, no future.

It’s quiet at Sally’s. Her and Mike have disappeared, apparently so she can show him some book he’d been asking her about. I’ve known Mike a long time and he’s not much of a reader. Me and you are sitting on a blue futon. I’m picking the label off my beer bottle and you’re idly swirling an ice cube around the inside of your tumbler.

“Sally hasn’t got that book,” you say.

I look at you. You’re tilting your head, hand behind your neck. Your hair has fallen away from your face and I trace the line of your jaw. Your lips twitch in a smile and there’s that flash of green again as you catch my eye. This time you don’t look away.

“Mike’s never heard of it anyway,” I reply. You laugh and I put a finger to my lips. Shh!

“Well I’m not going to sit here quietly and listen to them shagging,” you protest loudly. There’s a pause and then Sally calls from the next room: “we’re not shagging”. Another pause: “not yet anyway.” And then laughter followed by a few mock gasps and groans.

It’s quiet when we kiss. I was always bad at reading the signs. If you’d left it to me we’d have still been sat there arguing playfully about why jazz sounded like something musicians do before they start playing the song or swapping war stories of terrible first dates or how you couldn’t talk in pubs anymore or… You moved across the futon quickly, whispered “enough talking now, twinkle toes” and kissed me. Later you swear I said “ole”. It sounds like something I’d say but, honestly, I don’t remember anything after that kiss.