The Cold - Section 2

Warming beams of spring-time sunlight poured in through the window of the car, as it hurtled along the winding country road at unadvisable speed. I sat gripping the cushion of the passenger seat as we entered each bend and breathing a sigh of relief when we made it out on the other side. Though my fear was evident, David took no notice and gripped the wheel firmly, punching the pedals with his feet and periodically snatching at the gear-stick.

“Four years!” he shouted, though I could barely hear it over the sound of the pounding music. That was unimportant; this was no conversation and David neither needed nor desired an audience. I was only here at my own insistence, as I thought it best not to leave him on his own.

“Four bloody years.”

He hadn’t said much else since we’d got in the car. As he led it over the crest of a hill, the change in angle filled his eyes with the sun’s blinding rays. He cursed, and flipped down the visor at the top of the windscreen. I mimicked him, though much more calmly. I could think of nothing to say to him that would take his mind off things, and as the air had grown stifling, I occupied myself with winding down the window and attempted to take in the view as it rushed past.

An overgrown hedgerow lined the road. David snapped around another tight corner, and the sun now poured through the hedge; the light cracked and splintered and left a mottled shadow on the ground. The engine roared as David accelerated, finding himself enticed by the straight stretch of road opening up before him. Startled, a wren beat its feathers and pounded away from the nest it had made for itself in the hedge. I tracked its movements across the sky, until it was little more than a black speck darting away at great speed. Eventually, its path took it too close to the great orb of brilliant light, and I had to look away.

“Jesus Christ, Dave. Slow down,” I implored.

“Shut your mouth,” was the stubborn reply, and with it, the car sped up. I gave up, and slumped back into my seat. I hated cars; I could never get comfortable surrendering that much responsibility to somebody else. It was a perennial problem, and it certainly wasn’t helped when the driver was in such a state of mind as David. I resigned myself to my fate and looked once more out of the window. Over the horizon, Holyhead Hill rose up in the distance and gently cut its figure into the azure blue skyline. It grew larger and larger, and it became clear to me that this was where we were headed.
 





The car jolted to a sudden stop at the base of Holyhead Hill, stirring up a cloud of dust which almost obscured it from view. David jerked on the hand-break and exited the car, immediately setting off up the gentle, gradual slope, towards the sky. I fumbled with my seat-belt before managing to get out.

“Hey Dave, wait!”

I was ignored.

The lace of my shoe had come undone so I knelt down into the dirt to tie it. As I did so, I placed my hands on the ground to steady myself, and found it pleasantly warm. The dust, still settling after the car disturbed it, fell onto the backs of my hands and left a coat of light sprinkles I found oddly attractive. Glancing up the hill I noticed David was some way off already; I decided to just leave him to it, and join him at the top in my own time.

I was fairly certain that David’s mood would sour my enjoyment of the day, which otherwise would have proved agreeable, temperate and pleasant as it was. I determined to take a slow walk up the hill, to give David some of the time alone he so evidently craved, and to provide me with an opportunity to drink in the surrounding beauty, free from his negativity.

So it was that I began my ascent. Holyhead Hill was – for reasons unclear to me – rarely frequented despite being a mere fifteen minutes from town. My friends and I had, though, come often during our youth, and it had been the setting for many of our early Romances and Comedies. David and I in particular had spent a lot of time here, and I think we both saw it as a sort of private escape; a place for meditation and reflection when our lives had grown unmanageably busy or hectic. The top of the hill was evidently too high for problems to climb; it commanded a serenity I had struggled to find elsewhere, despite years of searching. It was so peaceful and still and calm, and instilled the same state in the minds of its visitors. The path up the hill, on the other hand, served to provide much more distraction, as it teemed with colours and sounds.

The path – such as it was – was completely shaded by the tall trees which flanked it, and the warmth of spring had had little effect here; the air was noticeably cooler. I had to thrash my hands to disperse a host of irritating flying insects before I could feel at ease. Once I had, I began to climb.

As I had every intention of taking my time, I surveyed the scenery with a purpose and intensity I never had before. The trees had gnarled branches, visible beneath the dense mass of green leaves and pink blossom. Many had vines snaking their way around the boughs, and some had evidently felt Persephone’s touch, as light-green shoots fumbled their way clumsily into the world. Bluebells and foxgloves must have returned from their winter vacation before the leaves of the trees, as they had evidently received plenty of light, now standing tall and proud, surveying the scene around them like coloured sentries. Sweet harmonies filled the air as birds sang to one another. A lonely daffodil, stationed in a clearing accessible to the light breeze, couldn’t resist the temptation to dance along to the birds’ melodic refrain. The perfection of the scene wasn’t wasted on a watchful squirrel, who had clambered to the top of the tallest tree to enjoy the light and warmth, and basked there in delightful relaxation.

The palette of spring impressed me, and had left me feeling decidedly happy by the time I made it out of the canyon of trees and found myself standing – once more in the light – on the grassy expanse at the hill’s peak. From where I stood, all was green until grass met sky, from which point on all was blue. David’s silhouette was all that broke this neat division. I approached, and sat alongside him on the bench. His shaking hands held a half-rolled cigarette. I took it and completed it for him before handing it back. He placed it between his lips, lit it, and let his shoulders rise and fall as he inhaled deeply.

“Four years,” he said. Evidently the quiet period of reflection I granted him had been to no avail.

“I know,” I said. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re holding up pretty well.”

He sighed, and continued his own train of thought: “She didn’t even give me any real reason. It just wasn’t working, apparently.” I could see he was fighting back a tear, and let him continue. “How in the hell was it not working? It worked this long and I didn’t think anything had changed!”

“Did you not see it coming at all?” I asked.

“No! And that’s the worst bit, you know? I thought everything was fine. I thought we were fine.”

He shook as though trying to free himself from something, and inhaled, more deeply than before. A few moments later, he allowed the smoke to seep out of his nostrils, and the grey, ghost-like tendrils danced in front of his face. It was clearly helping him; his hands had stopped trembling and his eyes suggested he was regaining some sense of composure.

“Maybe that was the problem? You haven’t fallen out and she doesn’t hate you – or even dislike you – but you’re both still pretty young. Maybe ‘fine’ wasn’t enough?”

Evidently trying to suggest a rationale for David’s recent break-up was a spectacularly unwise decision; he was clearly not, by this stage, ready to entertain such thoughts.

“Get lost Tom. What the hell would you know anyway? I don’t think you can criticise four years of ‘fine’ when you’re there sitting pretty on 23 years of being alone.”

I was sorely tempted to correct him and explain that I’d had a girlfriend – as well he knew – for a few months at one point. However, I suspected he would have just objected to my pedantry. Besides, referring as it did to 8 years prior, it was not an accolade which significantly strengthened my expertise in the subject, and it was that which he was calling into question.

“I wasn’t criticising anything Dave! You know I wasn’t. I wouldn’t.”

“Yeah? Well what were you doing then?”

“I was thinking about you as much of her. Is ‘fine’ ever really enough? That’s all I meant.”

“That’s what I mean! You have no idea. Of course ‘fine’ is enough – you can’t maintain a relationship at 100 miles an hour; it can’t carry on as intensely as it begins. Of course fine is fine; that’s the whole bloody point!”

He was shouting at me now, and just like earlier, his anger and frustration disturbed the wildlife. Another bird pounded away from its nest and into the sky, scared by the noise. This time, though, I was too involved to watch its departure.

“Okay, okay. Jesus.” I said.

“You’ve not got a bloody clue. I didn’t ask you to come with me! You just got into my car, and then you just followed me up here. Only to tell me it’s my fault and that I wasn’t good enough for her! ‘Is fine ever really enough?’ You’re unbelievable.”

Having said his piece – and the tremors having visibly returned to his hand – David rose from the bench and stormed off.

I sat and watched him go. My sympathy with his situation remained, but he had stoked the fire of self-reflection in me, and I saw no better place to fan the flames than here. He questioned my ability to comment on or judge relationships, and it was a thought that, strangely, had not occurred to me before. What did I know? My whole search for companionship had, I realised, been premised on that very notion he took such objection to – that fine was somehow inadequate. Could I, in fact, have spent the last 7 years feeling fine rather than feeling alone? I sat imagining how many perfectly tolerable – though imperfect – circumstances had been hounded out of my life by the evil spectre of idealism. This thought fostered and developed until I saw the face of this ghost in my mind’s eye; it was Jade.

Consumed as I was by thoughts, I remained at the bench for longer than I intended, keeping vigil over a back-catalogue of regrets and ill-conceived decisions. When I finally regained sense enough to stir, time crept up on me and I realised that the sun had already begun its descent as evening drew nearer. Though I knew I was stranded and would be walking home, I decided to wait a while longer, as it was in this light I enjoyed Holyhead Hill the most.

The bench beneath me was positioned right at the hill’s peak and was the perfect vantage point for someone with an eye for a view. Facing the way I had been the last couple of hours, the scene was of the town sprawling out, ever-growing, like a spillage that refuses to be cleaned. I had timed my re-awakening perfectly, as the street-lights were just now turning on. I watched as a serpent of luminescence wound its way through the streets, exploring the town in its entirety. Glows from the windows of houses also appeared and the sheer number overwhelmed me; you could walk around a town for a whole day and see plenty of faces and people, but it was only from a position like this that you could properly understand the volume of people which surrounded you, daily. Unnerved by the thought, I stood up and began to go back down the hill. As I walked, I noticed that the air had cooled, and I was thankful to still be wearing my duffle coat.

I was not particularly bothered by the prospect of the long walk home, as I still had plenty to digest and think about. I had reminded myself of many situations which, over the years, could have held promise for me had I been more inclined to let them. Of them, one stood out as significant. Though I had not thought of her in this light for over half a year, memories of Becky had stirred and proved difficult to shake. We had stayed in touch, at her initiation, but the conversations had been Platonic at best. Here I emerged from my Cave of delusion, and realised that perhaps I could have had more. Perhaps I wanted to have had more. I shook such thoughts away.

As I made it to the bottom of Holyhead Hill, I saw David sat on the bonnet of his car, smoking a cigarette.

“You took your time,” he said, with a tone which said all that his words could not. “Get in!”
 






David’s anger towards me lessened over the following days. He still felt the cut of my words, but had reconciled himself to the fact that no offence or insult was intended. His general mood was still dour, as he constantly replayed moments from the previous four years over in his mind, refusing to even make an effort to let go. Every now and again he would detail some event or other to me, for no other purpose than to remind himself that it had been real, I suppose. It grew tiresome quickly, but I was quite willing to tolerate his efforts to deal with his new found separation. It was after one such reminiscence, of a night they’d spent together at a bar in the town, which prompted David to make his suggestion.

“Let’s go out.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I mean, let’s go out. Out on the town. Tomorrow!”

I sensed the desperation in his voice, and inferred that he wanted to go and seek opportunities to move on. Whilst I thought that this was a foolish endeavour, I consented. Besides, I had by this point concluded that never again would I shut doors of opportunity on myself; perhaps I could meet somebody with whom I could have a ‘fine’ relationship. It pained me to find myself holding such low aspirations, but when I reminded myself of the lengthy isolation which had been the product of me standing by my ideals I ceded that perhaps a change in approach was indeed required.

“Sure,” I said, before adding, “But don’t get your hopes up. I’m not sure that moving too soon will make you feel any better. And you don’t want to meet someone you might actually like until you’re ready.”

“Whatever, Tom. I’m not going out on the hunt! I just want to take my mind off things and have a drink, that’s all.”

I didn’t believe him; I knew David and he had, despite being involved, always been the willing recipient of much female attention. Opportunity had presented herself to him on multiple occasions and he had been obliged to turn her down. Now, emancipated from the shackles of a happy relationship, he was free to enjoy meaningless encounters with people he barely knew, and liked even less. I knew with the utmost certainty that this was going to make him feel worse rather than better, but I also knew that there would be no dissuading him.

We arranged a time to meet, and I left him.

“I can’t wait,” I lied.
 




I met David at a bar on the high-street at the arranged time, and when I entered I saw that he had brought along two friends of his from his rugby club.

“Tom!” he yelled. It was immediately apparent that they had been drinking for a while, and I strongly suspected that they had begun after their game earlier that day. Whilst it did explain why he had brought his friends along, it did little to encourage me to have high hopes for the evening. “This is Alastair and Liam, from the rugby club.” A heavy handed slap on my back accompanied his introduction. I meekly introduced myself to them both, before shuffling off to the bar to get a drink.

“Mine’s a pint, cheers.” I wasn’t sure which one of them said it; it didn’t matter, as the other two swiftly echoed the original speaker.

It wasn’t long at all after I’d returned from the bar before Alastair and Liam – to this day I don’t know or care which was which – had begun a race to finish their pint. I sat opposite the three of them and saw away my whiskey in one. There was no overwhelming desire to catch up with them, though I had begun to recognise that I may in the near future have desired to block them out. It wasn’t long at all after I’d returned, either, before Alastair and Liam recognised my disdain for them, though I was indifferent on this point.

When the three of them felt they’d had ample time to drink, we stood up from the table, readying ourselves to leave. David, when backing up on his stool to leave himself room in which to rise, had accidentally backed into a man standing directly behind him, causing him to spill his drink. The ensuing confrontation threatened to turn violent, until I gave the man the money for a replacement drink and ushered David out of the bar and out onto the street.

“What did you do that for?” he shouted at me.

“Do what?”

“Buy him a drink! We didn’t owe him anything. It was an accident.”

“Yeah I know it was an accident. I just couldn’t be bothered with it.”

“Should’ve hit him,” said either Alastair or Liam, joining into the conversation. I had suspected that the idea would have occurred to one of my three companions sooner or later, and it was this suspicion, in fact, that had motivated me to conclude the episode as quickly as possible. As I had told David, I could not be bothered.

The night proceeded as expected. We went to a nightclub, where the music was too loud to talk to anybody and the queues for the bars were so long that the only sensible choice was to bulk-buy drinks, and either dispatch them straight, or hoard them, which was always a risk when the baying throng of people threatened to knock them out of your hand – and all over you – without a moment’s notice. David, Alastair and Liam elected to go down the second route, and so it was that we found ourselves stood, huddled around a table laden with cheap shots. The conversation was laboured, and was commandeered by the rugby players and steered towards the blonde Harpies dancing not far from us. It was agreed amongst the three of them that they were gorgeous, and constituted a prize worthy of sustained effort; I just nodded out of acquiescence.

“I’m gonna get me some of that,” said Alastair or Liam, before the two of them set off. David began to follow them, and grabbed my arm as if to guide me along, but I stopped him.

“Hang on,” I said. “I’m just going to get another drink. You go, and I’ll join you in a minute.”

He shrugged, too inebriated to argue, and went and joined his friends and the dancing blondes.

I went to the bar and, after a tortuous wait, ordered myself a drink. I took it to the side of the room and positioned myself as far away from the speaker system as I could manage. Despite my best efforts, the music still deafened me. I sighed with frustration and downed my drink; I had lost count of how many times I had done so since meeting David and his friends, but it was clearly enough to have had an effect. My head was spinning. I decided to go outside to catch a breath of fresh air in an attempt to give myself a new lease of life.

As I stood outside, ears still ringing, I began to question what I was doing here. I despised the music, and it prohibited any form of meaningful conversation. Dancing frightened me, as it required a confidence and a degree of co-ordination – both of which eluded me. Drink proved the only source of respite and escape, and even that was difficult to obtain and harder still to stomach. I concluded that I had only come so as to keep David company, and I was superfluous to that end as he had provided his own companionship. With this I had practically decided to start the walk home, but I remembered that I had actually come here with an agenda of my own. I had come here to find a woman with whom I could feel, if not happy, then content – I wanted things to be fine.

My mission fresh in my mind, I decided to return to the club with a renewed sense of purpose. Just as I made this decision and set off back up the stairs, a woman of around twenty placed her hand on my arm and spoke to me.

“I’ve lost my friends,” she said. She was attractive enough, with straight brown hair falling to her shoulders, and a figure which I am sure provoked envy in most others. Her hand remained locked on my arm. “My friends have left me.”

“Oh dear. My friends are probably wondering where I am, too,” I said, and waited for her to release her grip on me so I could go back inside.

“Will you stay out here with me for a while so I can wait for my friends?”

I sighed and nodded, and allowed myself to be dragged across to the stepped entrance to a shop, where she sat me down and placed herself next to me. Optimism refused to embrace me, though I endeavoured to make every effort.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Anna.”

“Tom.”

She said nothing else; it was clear that she’d been drinking, though not enough to adequately account for this weak a conversational effort. She was not forthcoming but I thought it polite to try and find out something about her.

“What’s your favourite book?” It was a foolish question to ask, given the circumstances, but I too had been drinking and could think of nothing else. I was treated first to a stony silence, before she finally admitted to not knowing. She seemed a little offended by the question, which struck me as odd. Not willing to cede defeat just yet, I opted for something a little simpler.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty today! I came out with my friends, but they’ve gone and I can’t find them.”

I was pleased to have been so close to the mark when I had guessed her age earlier, and although the conversation was going dreadfully I took undue comfort in this small victory. Emboldened, I offered her a birthday drink, to celebrate, and then told her we should look for her friends inside, together. She agreed - pleased, I think, to leave both the conversation and the cold of the night behind her.

And so we found ourselves at the bar, me waiting to buy a drink for each of us. Freed from the restrictions of having to talk, she had significantly opened up, and her hand had wormed its way into mine, her index finger caressing my wrist gently whilst I waited for attention at the bar. She leant in close and said in my ear that she didn’t like the wait and that we should go and dance instead. I would have agreed, had she given me the chance; as it was, she refused to wait and almost dragged me across the room. We began to dance.

It was hell. Outwardly, I believe I gave the impression of a man enjoying himself, which should in fact have been the case; she was an attractive woman and was suggesting interest and availability through the movement of her hips and hands. Inwardly, however, I was despising every moment, as dancing left me at my most vulnerable and self-conscious.

Anna must have been drunker than I first imagined, or at least much more forward. She leant in close once more, and said, “As you got out of the birthday drink, how about a birthday kiss?” Her mouth lingered next to my ear after saying it, her breath hot on my cheek. I had no real desire to kiss her, as I felt no reason to believe any good would come of it. I checked myself, though, and reminded myself of my resolution. Reluctantly, I took my hand to her head and guided it from my ear until we were nose to nose. Her eyes were bleary with drink, and I suspect mine were too. I brought my lips to hers and we kissed; her mouth too wet and mine too dry.

A few more intolerable songs passed, with us alternating between awkwardly dancing and awkwardly kissing, before the club’s lights came on. Inspecting her under their glow, I found myself impressed. Her reaction to the lights was to scour the room, desperately searching for her friends. She couldn’t find them, so she suggested we swapped numbers and met for a coffee the next day. I agreed, and with that she kissed me once more before running off to have one last look.

I stumbled around the club, reflecting on how the evening had been a nominal success. It did not fill me with the joy I had anticipated.

David spotted me from across the room and bounded over.

“Where’ve you been? How was your night?”

My reply: “It’s been fine.”
 





Before meeting Anna I hadn’t kissed anybody since Becky. Six months was a long time to wait, and my tendency to mentally escalate the importance of that which I lacked had left me expecting much; I had been bitterly disappointed. As I bumbled around the house, contemplating whether or not to go and meet Anna for the agreed-on coffee, I decided that as drink had likely not portrayed either of us at our best that it would be foolish to cancel. I remained unconvinced about the prospect, but willing to at least give it a try.

The first thing I had done that morning was to go and purchase the Sunday papers; it was something of a routine. Sat at the breakfast bar, drinking orange juice to attempt to lessen the pain in my head, I took up a pen and attempted a crossword. Hard concentration and focus was certainly a poor idea as it exacerbated the constant throb gnawing away at my mind, stretching from ear to ear. It did, however, serve to distract me and prevent me from talking myself out of my decision. My thoughts were still clouded by alcohol and it took me over an hour, but I did manage to complete it. By this point it was about time for me to get ready. I did, and then I set off.

It had rained during the night. The road and the path both lay submerged beneath the murky waters, and all way grey and dull and still. If the sun were out then the scene may have been more attractive, but the sky was a tired beige and a constant, shapeless cloud kept all life and light at bay. The only noise – it being a languid, sluggish Sunday morning – was the gentle trickle of water dripping away into drains and off into the sewer system. Cheer and joy were nowhere to be seen.
Reluctantly, I made my way through the lifeless tableau, making every effort not to disturb it.

I arrived a short while before I had intended to, so I stationed myself at a table with a view of the window and ordered myself a large black coffee. It was the only source of stimulation I could be certain of receiving that day, and I was accordingly more appreciative of it than I typically would have been. Rich, dark and deep aromas provided untold comfort. I had not been sat there for long before the night’s assault on the town recommenced, and rain began to pound at the window. Alone in the coffee shop, apart from the barista – who bored me – and with no passers-by to entertain myself with, I took to tracing individual drops of water down the pane before me with my fingertips; it was surprisingly therapeutic.

Spinning, the hands of the monochrome clock on the wall ate away at time, first consuming seconds, which rapidly turned into minutes. Anna was late. Or, Anna was not coming. I sat for a further ten minutes contemplating my indifference to the two scenarios I’d imagined, when, finally, the door opened and in she walked, dripping wet. Her eyes searched me out and, considering that the room was otherwise empty, this took her a remarkably long time. She shook her hair in a futile attempt to dry off – in a manner not dissimilar to a recently bathed dog, though the comparison would be, on the whole, unfair - closed the door behind her, and walked over to me, removing her black coat as she did so.

“Morning,” she said. No apology at all came for her tardiness; I decided not to let it bother me.

“Morning Anna,” I said, forcing a smile.  Insincerity felt uncomfortable. “How you doing today? Head’s not feeling too bad, I hope.”
“I’m fine, I’m fine. It’s so wet though! It’s horrible.”

With that we began a laboured conversational effort, discussing, in fine detail, the weather. She was right, of course; it was indeed wet. That wasn’t the only insight she offered.

“It’s colder today than it has been, too, which just makes it worse.”

I nodded in agreement, and went to buy us each a coffee.

When I got back, the conversation changed direction, though to say it improved would have been charitable. In what I can only assume was her genuine effort to get to know me, we discussed pets, siblings, even star-signs. Looking back I can scorn the conversation, though at the time I was playing my part with a level of engagement; I was trying.

“Did you have a good day yesterday, then? Sorry I couldn’t get that birthday drink for you. I owe you one.”

“Yes it was a really good night! All the girls were out. Don’t worry about the drink, anyway, you made up for it,” she said, with a giggle, and her hand found its way to mine on the table-top.

I had no idea what I’d possibly said that could have been of any interest to her – for my part the conversation had been indescribably tedious. It struck me that perhaps the fun, engaging and interesting conversations I’d always imagined sharing with a woman must have been unrealistic aspirations. I didn’t find Anna offensive, and the conversation had not been overly awkward, as she had doled out one uninspired question after another. It had been, undeniably, fine. And that was what I was after.

“What about you, Tom? How was your night?”

“Yeah, can’t complain. My friends had too much to drink so it wasn’t going particularly well,” I began, before adding, “until I met you, of course.” The insincerity which was merely uncomfortable earlier was actively paining me now. Penance, I suppose. It seemed to have the opposite effect on her as she smiled, and caressed the palm of my upturned hand with her fingers, tracing the lines and cracks with an intensity I had previously thought her incapable of.

Looking up at me, she asked how I was.

“I’m fine,” I told her, and resigned myself to a future of platitudes, insincerity and tedium. You could argue that I was being unreasonable in assuming that Anna and I would end up together, but I thought that I had already got a fairly firm handle on her personality and the fact that, if I wished it, we could become involved.

I did wish it. Better that than being alone.
 





Spring rolled into summer, and conversation blended into conversation, and I grew into my relationship with Anna. A warming process accompanied each transition, which explains how it came to be that in July, Anna and I were sat in a park - her in my arms - discussing what we saw around us without me despising every moment. Any time I wanted the conversation to go anywhere I still had to lead it there, but the frustration this caused me had numbed, having been slowly eroded by constant exposure over an expanse of time. The latest private accolade I had awarded myself had been the successful induction of Anna into the esoteric order of people watchers; from reluctant beginnings accompanied only by pained expressions and facile remarks, she had matured and could now observe keenly and astutely, and often her remarks contained something so closely resembling wit or insight as to bring a smile to my face. Thus it was that I had warmed to her; I had shaped and moulded her to more closely resemble women I much preferred. The resemblance was not perfect, and I was not truly happy with Anna the way some men are happy with their partners. I was, however, happy not to be alone.

Whilst the warming of my sentiments was only partial, the change from spring to summer had been absolute and undeniable. The sun-scorched earth we sat on was parched, with cracks appearing in the expanse of brown which was broken only by sparse patches of wiry yellowing grass. Shimmers of heat radiated upwards from the ground which had spent weeks basking in the sun and absorbing the energy it had to offer. The park at times was so full of flowers – varied and vibrant – that it looked like a rainbow had shattered and left its coloured shards as petals and blooms; the memory of so lush and abundant a picture dampened the sepia scene to such an extent that it seemed bereft of life and prospect in comparison. Not even a trace of moisture remained in the air, and it was so thin and bare that sound seemed to travel faster and more crisply through it; a child standing on, and snapping, a twig resonated as clearly and sharply as a gun-shot. The heat was stifling and oppressive, and seemed like a weight pressing down on the two of us as we sat there, embracing. Anna’s skin was always unnaturally cool. This was one of the many things I had discovered about her since her birthday, and it hadn’t taken long to find this out, as what she lacked in verbosity she more than compensated for through being overly tactile. It didn’t bother me, and on a day like today I rather welcomed it, as I could seek refuge from the blistering July warmth and keep her happy, achieving that rare triumph of pleasing us both at once.

The other benefit I had discerned from Anna’s enjoyment of physicality and demonstrative affection was that on the (irritatingly frequent) occasion I found myself tired of lacklustre conversation, or grew weary and jaded with her superficial responses to serious questions, all I had to do was tousle her hair or plant my lips on her cheek, and the conversation would be over. She required the smallest invitation to passion, and her responses were – without fail – delivered with vigour. 

Just such a display of our feelings for one another had just concluded; I could still taste her on my lips and her hair was a mess. Our lengthy kiss would, I was sure, not even have registered on the radars of the park’s many other visitors, as the heat had stirred similar desires and emotions in all who had been touched by it. It occurred to me that perhaps I was not alone, and that of all the couples in the park, one of its members indulged the other in kisses so as to avoid the trouble of having to talk to them. I assumed this was not the case, but decided, nevertheless, to affect an air of solidarity with anyone who caught my eye, shooting them knowing looks, which must have confused them.

She straightened her hair, clearing it out of her eyes, and said, “This is lush, Tom. I could stay here forever.”

“It’s good, yeah. I love the park, and it’s a nice day. Just a shame about the company.”

She stuck out her tongue and punched me on the arm. The first few times we met I hadn’t dared to tease or joke, as I feared she would misunderstand me and take offence; I’d had plenty of experience of this and, desperate as I had been to not disincline her towards me, I kept my barbs to myself. Gradually, as we spent increasing time together, my self-censorship failed and the odd comment slipped out and hit the mark. I was just about growing tired of explaining that I hadn’t intended to cause her any offence when Anna just about grew familiar enough with me to understand this on her own.

“Whatever. I really could, though.”

“Could what?” I asked.

“Stay here forever! Can we?”

“Sure thing. Forever and ever.”

I pushed her onto her side and positioned myself behind her, the small of her back next to my stomach. She brushed the hair out of her eyes once more, and I gestured to the row of trees which lined the side of the park we were facing.

“We’ll stay here forever and ever, and I’ll be able to go in there and find food for us whenever you’re hungry. And in the winter we could move under the trees and they’d keep us dry.”

“It’d still be cold, Tom.”

“It was your idea… And besides, there’s plenty of squirrels, I’ll make you a coat.”

“There are not squirrels in that wood.”

“There are so!” I retorted indignantly. I pointed across at a dense thicket of bushes at the bottom of the trees and declared, “There’s one now. Look!”

She was right, of course; there were no squirrels. I had pointed randomly because I knew the search for the elusive beasts would occupy her for some time, and it amused me. By the time she gave in, I had rolled onto my back for comfort and closed my eyes to keep out the gaudy glare. They burst open again as Anna’s weight was applied to my chest.

She said, “We couldn’t do it, anyway. Stay here forever.”

“Why not?”

“Well, yes you could get some food and some shelter from the woods, but we’d need to go to the shop at some point, surely. What would we do for money?”

“I’ve got that sorted, too, don’t worry,” I said, and wormed my way out from underneath her. “I’d work here, too. It’d be you going to the shops, when we needed something, and that way I’d never, ever have to leave.”

“What possible job are you going to do at the park?”

I stretched out and tore a clump of grass out from the dust and held it before her face.

“I know this summer’s basically a drought, but have you been here before?” I asked.

“Of course I have, it’s the nicest spot in town during the summer.”

“Good. Well then, you know it’s usually all green and covered in grass. I’d mow that.”

“You’re going to mow the grass at the park?”

“Yeah, why not? Somebody has to! It sounds like my dream job, now I think about it. I’d get one of the sit-down mowers, and I’d just ride around the park on sunny days and get paid for it. I could think of stories in my head to keep me entertained, or just watch people, and all the while I’d be sat, in the sun, and getting paid.”

I was enjoying my little fantasy, imagining what it would really be like. I knew that the idea itself was ridiculous; the job and the life-style sounded like hell. I was, instead, enjoying the process of fostering each aspect of my mental creation and nurturing them to form the coherent whole.

“You’re mad,” she said.

Our attention was grabbed by a couple across the other side of the park from us, perfectly in our eye-line but out of ear-shot. The man had just stood up and his arms were gesticulating wildly. I suggested he was shaking off an assault of the summer’s ants, whereas Anna was convinced that he was berating his partner. The woman, in a garish outfit comprising discordant colours, was ignoring the man and simply lay there, with her head buried in a book. As the thrashing of the arms grew increasingly wild, she closed the book and rested her elbow on it, turning her head to him. Eventually, her head began to bob up and down as though she were laughing at him, before she dragged herself to her feet and brushed him down. Both now satisfied and at ease again, he resumed sunbathing whilst she re-opened her book.

The charade was over, and I was the victorious guesser – a fact I did not fail to point out to Anna. She always struggled when playing these games. I was just pleased that she was now making contributions; the first few times I had asked her, I was met with a stony silence. She had made immeasurable progress in that one respect – her willingness to engage. Whilst she had clearly misinterpreted the charade acted out for us by the couple across the park, I was not perturbed, and was thinking that, on the whole, this had been a surprisingly pleasant day; certainly the best we had spent together for a while.

Just then, she said, “I don’t actually want to live in the park forever, Tom.”

“Hmm, okay. Why not?” I was a little surprised to have that thread revisited.

“I wouldn’t be able to wash my hair.”

I looked at her to see if she was joking. The confusion in her eye told me all I needed to know; she was being perfectly serious, and it dawned on me that when I had thought we had been enjoying a shared joke and fantasy, we – in her head - had in fact been genuinely contemplating a switch in employment and abode. Perhaps the day had not been so pleasant after all.
I did not much want to talk to her at that point, so I stroked her hair, and she kissed me.
 





With the curtains closed to keep daylight out, Anna and I were lying on the floor, entwined. The smoothness of her skin was soothing, and my finger-tips were exploring it intrepidly, tracing a route around the small of her back. I knew she liked this; one of our rare fruitful conversations had revealed this to me as she found herself forthcoming and informative one day. Her brown hair fell awkwardly, covering her eye, so I blew it aside, and gazed in. The night I had met her, I had assumed her eyes were bleary through drinking. The truth of the matter was that they were in fact always so; an obstinate trait that portrayed her as perpetually on the brink of tears. As my finger completed a defined circle, her whole body arched and I planted a soft kiss on the tip of her nose.

She giggled, before asking, “Do we have to go tonight, Tom?”

It had been agreed for some time that we were going to go to David’s house that evening, as he, having reunited with his one-time ex-girlfriend, had invited five couples for an evening of poker.

“No you don’t have to go. I’m going, and it’s going to be all couples, and I’d rather you came. But no, you don’t have to come.”

“Okay. I’ll come, obviously. I’m just saying I’d rather stay here and be with you.” With that she rolled over and rested her head on my shoulder, sighing. “I’m bored.” At once bored and yet reluctant to leave; the incongruity was, I could safely assume, wasted on her.

“What do you want to do, then? We don’t have to go anywhere for hours.”

“Put a film on,” she said.

“Alright - what do you want to watch?”

“I don’t know.”

She was infuriating. This was a typical conversation, where decisions to be made were left entirely to me. Her deference always struck me simply as lazy rather than complimentary. She was not assuming my tastes were better; she was just reluctant to think for herself. I let out a groan of frustration, before obliging her and selecting a film for us to watch. The opening shot of American Beauty – my favourite film – entranced her, and we shuffled closer together, attempting to get comfortable so that we could watch it. The spell was broken, however, when Kevin Spacey’s character was taking a shower; she found the narration more repellent than the visuals, and her fidgeting and muttering made this clear. I excused myself, faking the need for a drink of water.

When I returned, reluctant though I was to do so, I found her sat up facing the screen but concentrating, instead, on her nails. I positioned myself in the arm-chair and put my feet up. I took my phone from my pocket and began reading old messages. Without having intended to do so, I found myself concentrating chiefly on conversations I had had with Becky. They were largely inane, and sporadic – with no sense of continuity or overarching purpose to them; the very first of the messages had been her simply telling me she’d returned home safely and wishing the same for me. It had been, if I’m honest, an incredibly banal exchange considering it spanned nine months. Whilst none of the words or sentiments managed to stir anything in me, I still took solace in the fact that, as I tracked the development of the conversation over time, it was evident that neither of us had wished to sever ties. Little, superficial updates had maintained an artificial sense of closeness between us: a closeness, which in truth, had never sufficiently been established to warrant any maintenance work. Reading over the messages reminded me of Becky’s wit, and the ease with which she commanded a conversation, and the sense of comfort she instilled in me. A few conversations with her had taught me as much as a few months with Anna.

Anna. She reminded me of her presence in the room with a vocal complaint that she didn’t understand what was going on, and that I always picked films which were too confusing. I said I needed a nap before we went to play cards that evening, and I left her there, sat talking into her nails and ignoring the screen.
 




So it was that I stole myself away to bed, early in the afternoon, just to avoid spending time with my girlfriend. It was a hot day and, whilst the blinds were closed, the white sheets didn’t manage to provide the comfort I sought. The cold side of the pillow was, nevertheless, welcome. I lay my head down and attempted to sleep, though my mind was racing with thoughts of the evening ahead. I wasn’t particularly looking forward to it, but that was not unusual given that it was explicitly an evening for couples; such events always stirred in me a certain reservation, tending, as they did, towards gratuitous shows of intimacy and affection stemming more from pride than from affection. But this was something different. It wasn’t that which was bothering me. This time, there was another, slightly more pernicious, feeling eating away at me. Shame.

I realised that whilst I found being alone with Anna uncomfortable enough a lot of the time, the real issue preventing me from enjoying the relationship was the intense shame I felt when we were amongst others. It was a dual-shame, trapping me in a pincer movement. On the one hand I was ashamed to be amongst other couples who clearly had more in common and who enjoyed one another’s company truly, although I cede that these couples are few and far between. But more pressingly, I was ashamed to present Anna to the very friends who I had subjected, for years, to my views on romance. How could I reconcile myself to publicise my interactions with Anna in front of David, who I had previously asked whether ‘fine’ could ever really be enough? That incident was far from isolated; I had waxed lyrical, on a number of occasions over the years, about my being single through choice, and how I was simply waiting for someone stimulating enough to warrant breaking the habit. I could not tolerate the thought of facing these people now, and presenting Anna to the world as the fruit of that prolonged search. I could hear her presently, muttering to herself in bemusement at the film. I shuddered.

Ignoring the heat, I pulled the duvet cover over my head and created myself an artificial darkness and solitude. My phone was still in my hand, open on a message Becky had sent me a couple of weeks before asking about my plans for the rest of the summer. I had told her something vaguely resembling the truth, though in a fashion designed to make me seem more occupied than I was in reality. She, in turn, had detailed her orderly and busy summer schedule, including her holiday to America. She would be back now, I realised. Before I could talk myself out of it, I sent her a message asking how she’d enjoyed her trip, and if she fancied meeting up for a drink. Once it was sent, I took to wondering why I hadn’t suggested it sooner – that she was still in touch after nine months now was surely evidence enough that she was willing for our chance encounter of a few days over the cold winter to be the beginning of, at the least, a meaningful friendship. Her reply was instant: “Trip was great thanks, so many stories to tell you! Meeting up would be great. When and where? B X”

The heat under the duvet was sweltering. I threw it off and returned to Anna.

“How about we give cards a miss tonight?” I suggested.

“Huh? Oh, that’s fine by me. Why don’t you want to?”

“I just don’t feel like I can face it tonight. I’d rather be alone.”

“Aww, me too.” With that, she rose to her feet and embraced me, before pulling me down to the floor and planting kisses on my neck.

Evidently we had different understandings of the word alone.