She’d insisted her father meet her outside in the car park, because he’d make a big deal of it, and she didn’t want the others to see. She knew, before it happened, how it would go.
He’d be stood up. He’d have arrived too early. He’d be waiting, in the same make of tan suede loafers he’d worn every weekend since she could remember, arms outstretched, pinning a wobbling smile to his face. He’d sob into her hair. He’d take big, heaving breaths of relief and there would be surging emotion that he himself probably wouldn’t understand. His cheeks would be wet and, because it was a Sunday, he wouldn’t have shaved, so his beard would scrape against her face. She dreaded the performance of it, and felt ashamed to dread such love.
As it turned out, because she was still a hair’s breadth off eighteen, they wouldn’t release her without the presence of a nominated guardian, so he met her in the reception. He needed to sign for her, like a package – a fragile one he’d strap into the front seat of the Volvo, and hold fast as he turned sharp corners.
The sun shone, though the day was far from warm. As she’d sat, waiting for him, the first few flakes of snow had fallen. It had seemed strange to see it happen, in the sunlight, and they had come down so slowly that, at first, she hadn’t been sure it was snow at all, so fragile was the offering that it looked to her more like debris. Ash. Like the aftermath of some great fire.
Sorry I’m late. The fucking dog’s been driving me mental. She’s in heat.
He’d been scowling into the cold air, as she’d watched him round the corner past the chemist, and the lines on his forehead had not yet settled back into his face. She thought he looked tired and irritable, and the possibility of being punished by one of his foul moods had spurred in her a desire to keep the walk brief, or to avoid it altogether. Disappointment hit her in the stomach, and she began thinking of an out. Fake a phone call. Feign a limp. But it wasn’t long before he was smirking at her, dancing on the spot to keep warm, and she found herself smirking back. Once again, the open morning seemed to roll out before them, like a bolt of gold fabric.
it’s one of those nights when we decide to give in and sack off the cleanse – two friends with enough rum to feel sore tomorrow
you’ve still got paint on from where you’ve touched your forehead and cheek – it’s midweek it cracks when you laugh and drink
I remember you as you were when we’d stay up smoking wiping a CD on your jeans – just fifteen we’d talk about where we’d go together
doesn’t tonight feel almost like those and still not quite the same as before when we’d sit, sentries of dawn – and yawn sleeping long past the birds and the sun
I ask if it’ll ever be like it was when we were kids, and you smile and don’t say a lot – probably not then we laugh and we don’t know why
and now it’s one of those nights when we sit and remember and pretend we’re not blue – it’ll do but I’ll never forget being young with you
in a lukewarm bath with you perched on the side I watched as you scraped pink curls off the soap before you told me you needed a walk and left but before I heard the latch I heard your voice on the phone and I wondered if absent mindedly biting your nails later that night you would taste that soap or if someone else might
when you had that big work do thing the one where you couldn’t bring anyone because it would be weird I sent you a photo when I was a bit drunk just for you just of me on the sofa with the cat and later on that night as we finished the rum you had half inched from the bar I asked you why you didn’t respond to my messages and you stroked my legs propped up on your legs and you finished the rest of your drink off
last autumn you told me that Radiohead were overrated and then you showed me some new bands I should really listen to but only in this order and did I know the original line up for that five piece no one has ever heard of and then you smoked another of my cigarettes without asking and blew the smoke towards the window before you put your clothes back on and I would have punched you in your mouth when you said it if I could have but you were holding my right hand at the time so I couldn’t do it but I wish I had now because you never hold my hands anymore
There’s no need to measure out – paint-stripper, heel-tripper, drink like there’s a drought. Knocked back neat, forget that cheat: tonight we’re going out.
Down the dregs and out the door – liquor sweet, aching feet, dance until they’re raw. Then blow a gram, and phone your mam: ninth tequila: floor.
Lights go up and stagger home – kebab gnaw, slack jaw, smell of old cologne. Think you’re fine, but miss the swine: fall asleep alone.