Imperfect Strangers (18 page)

Good boys don’t tell tales about their
mothers.

Mrs
Sewell’s mouth spreads, and the creases in her face draw back like curtains on a stage, showing her gums in a broad smile. “Course you don’t want me here. Good looking young man like you. Cramp your style wouldn’t I, Keith? Still, it’s nice to dream,” she adds with a sigh, looking into the imagined kitchen before looking back at me with a self-boosting inhalation of rattling breath. “Are you expecting company?” she asks, indicating the duster with a shaking finger.

“No. Well, not today. Soon though. A girl. Sally. Sally’s her name. From work. Met her at work. I’ve got a photo.” I rush to the sideboard, pick up the photograph and present it to Mrs
Sewell. “Look, see. Pretty isn’t she?”

Mrs
Sewell takes the photograph from me and holds it before her face – drawing it to and from her eye until it reaches a reasonable focus. Two thirds of the picture is missing. A rip of white runs plumb to Sally where some other person has been ripped away. A decapitated arm rests on her shoulder. Mrs Sewell screws her lips ponderously while sucking her gums.

“Yes, pretty thing right enough. Bit thin mind.”

Taking the photo from her, I look at it for a while, my heart fluttering, before putting it back on the sideboard. I glance at the dark kitchen and feel a slight burn in my wrists.

Good boys don’t tell tales.

“I– I– I’ve got some of us together, b-but they’ve not been p-printed yet. Been seeing her for six, no, seven weeks now. And we’re going to the p-pictures tonight.”

“Pictures, eh?
Lovely.” Mrs Sewell looks into her lap, her fingers buried in Mrs Seaton’s black fur. “Long time since a young man took me to the movies.” She sighs, longingly.

“Might go for a drink afterwards.”

I echo Mrs Sewell’s sigh, not from memories of things long since past but in yearning of the means with which to forge them. I hope that this time Sally will agree to a drink rather than rushing straight off, every time having already arranged to meet with Kerry. You could come too, she offers, but–. Every time Sally says she would invite me too, but Kerry’s not the easiest person to get along with, and she’s thinking of my feelings really, by not inviting me to join them.

I hate that Kerry.

I hate her.

I have a list of reason
s to like and reasons to dislike her. The list of reasons to like is empty.

She’s getting in the way of my future happiness.

CHAPTER
25

I’m not meeting Sally until seven-thirty, but as usual I am outside the cinema at seven. It feels uncomfortable though, standing here for thirty minutes, couples filing past me
, hand in hand, laughing, joking, giving each other pecks on the cheek, some pausing for a full-blown kiss on the lips, but I don’t want to risk being late. It’s good to be here, and there are plenty of other men standing, waiting on their own. Saturday night is definitely the time for couples. Maybe, I
am
part of a couple now. Maybe I’m a six and not a two: a composite and not a prime. I wonder if I might chance giving Sally a peck on the cheek when she arrives, and flustering at the very idea, I palm the warm gift in my pocket.

I have a theory.

It goes like this: time is not universal but is linked to the individual, and it runs at a different pace for each and every one of us. It slows dramatically when you’re waiting for something you really want. Checking the time whenever I feel five minutes have passed by confirms this theory, because each and every time only two minutes at most have actually passed. I even hold the watch to my ear to check it is still working. So, the theory: time, like matter, cannot be destroyed or created; it can only be converted. The payback for time slowing while I wait for Sally is that when she is present it speeds to twice its standard rate of progression, thereby balancing the deficit that would otherwise come about. If only the two could be transposed I would be extremely happy: time passing quickly while waiting for her to arrive, passing slowly when I am in her company.

I am always thirty minutes early – on the dot. Sally is always about five or ten minutes late. At least five or ten minutes. Those last five or ten minutes are the slowest of all. They are more than slow
; they are painfully slow. This pain is literal and housed in my chest. My palms sweat and I question if she is actually coming; is this the occasion when she changes her mind and doesn’t turn up? Those last five or ten minutes bring genuine anguish as I struggle to come to terms with the fact that this may be the very day when she realises she wants nothing more to do with me.

Couples file past me, and look as if they’re thinking:
who’s this loser. He can’t possibly be meeting anyone.
I want Sally to be here before they all disappear. I want her to be here so the other men can see how special is the woman I was waiting for.

I see her, in the distance, looking as lovely as ever. Already time is speeding, tripping over itself in order to rectify
the deficit. My increased heart rate proves the theory further. Left or right cheek, I think, at the same time wondering if I even dare to chance a kiss. Suddenly I need to urinate. Why, in the forty minutes when time was running slow, did my body not need to urinate? Why now? Why now in the period when time is running at a quick pace?

“Hi, Keith,” she says from eight feet away, her face, her eyes, her mouth, all smiling, and framed by auburn hair
that gleams lustrous glints of golden-copper under the foyer lights. Her eyes sparkle with life and time sprints even quicker for a moment.

I brace myself to lean forward. Left cheek, I’ve decided, and already I can smell her perfume,
Passion
. Of all her perfumes, it’s my favourite. Sally diverts right and pushes through the rotating door. I almost fall forward, the kiss well shy of its mark, and watch Sally encapsulated in glass like the angel dome on her desk. Now inside the door myself, I take the bottle from my pocket. Sally waits for me on the other side, and I thrust the bottle forward as I exit. Too eagerly as it turns out, as it only narrowly misses hitting her in the face. Sally looks at me as if I meant to hit her, completely oblivious to the object in my hand.

“Got you a present!” I quickly rush.

“Oh, Keith, you shouldn’t have. But thanks anyway.” She takes the bottle. Her fingertips touch mine, and I feel the heat of them shoot to the back of my neck.

“Passion. My favourite. I’m wearing it now.”

“I know. I sampled every bottle in the shop until I found the right one.” That’s a lie. I feel guilty lying to Sally, but I can’t very well say I saw the bottle on your dressing table.

“I’ve almost run out of Passion, too. That’s very
considerate Keith. Thank you.”

The words,
I know
, enter my head and I only narrowly avoid saying them out loud. I noticed and I didn’t want you running short of my favourite aroma, the scent your chair smelled of that night in the office when I first decided that you liked me. That fragrance, like the sound of Leanne Rimes, is a part of the link that joins us. It’s on the list.

Sally leans toward me and places a hand on my shoulder. She leans closer. I can feel her breath. And then – oh sweet angel for forging me a memory to savour – she brushes my cheek with her lips. They’re hotter than her fingertips. I want to cool them with my tongue.
My hands flex as I imagine grabbing her by the shoulders, drawing her sideways and pulling her towards me.

Another time.

Sally smiles with a subtle twist that’s impossible for me to read. “Lipstick,” she says, brushing my cheek with her thumb.

Leave it,
I want to say, but I just smile back at her instead.

“I’m er sorry, I need the toilet.”

“You always do Keith. Tell you what, I’ll get the tickets while you go.” She places the perfume in her bag and draws out her purse.

“Here,” I hurriedly say, my wallet refusing to leave my pocket
, stubbornly increasing its resistance the more forcefully I tug at it. Finally it releases itself, launching loose coins in the process. “I– I– I’ll pay.” Drawing a twenty from the wallet I hand it to Sally as she stands from collecting the spilled coins.

“We’ll go Dutch, Keith. What do you fancy? Action? Romance? Horror?”

“You choose.”

“I chose last time.”

“You pick good films. I really enjoyed the last one.”

I can’t remember the film, not one moment of it in all honesty. Time ran too fast to take it in. I’d gladly sit in the dark and stare at a blank screen as long as Sally is sat in the seat next to me.

*  *  *

“That was a good film,” Keith says when we spill
back into the foyer.

Personally I thought it was crap, but K
eith seems to be easily pleased. “It was okay, I guess.” Any moment now, I think, glancing at my watch, and then he asks.

“Fancy a drink?”

There’s a note of disappointment in his voice, even as he asks, as if I’ve already given him my answer. I consider saying yes just to prove him wrong, to prove I’m not as predictable as he might imagine me to be, but that would be a mistake.

“No, I’d best not.” I should have been straight from the start. I mean, I didn’t exactly tell him we were just going as friends, but I thought it was understood. What do I say?
To be honest Keith, I’m only here because I feel sorry for you
. That might have been true at first, but you’re actually okay, really, Keith, although we’re never going to be more than friends. I can’t believe he bought me this perfume, and then I went and kissed him, on the cheek. Talk about mixed messages.

Keith sighs. His shoulders look like they’ve been l
oaded with a ton of concrete.

“Meeting Kerry?”

“No. I’m not, not this week.” A man pushes past, knocking my shoulder without even apologising.
Jerk
, I almost shout, but tut instead. Not for one moment could I imagine Keith being discourteous enough to even collide with someone, never mind not apologising for having done so. He says please and thank you. He asks me how I’m feeling. He opens doors... He’s just a friend though. I can’t imagine him being anything more. A drink would be a mistake. It would only give him the wrong idea, especially after that peck on the cheek. I’m screwing my mouth in cogitation and only realise when I notice Keith trying to read my expression. He’s not very good at picking up signals.

“I need to watch my spending, Keith. In fact, to be honest, I’m going to have to stop our weekly cinema trips.” When Keith opens his mouth to protest I quickly continue. “Thing is, Steve wants his share of
the house. I don’t know what I–” I choke slightly and the words don’t flow as readily as I would have wished. It’s not just the house, I was thinking of giving Steve a second chance until he showed just how uncaring he can actually be. “I might have to sell it.”

Keith looks uncomfortable. I have no problem reading body language. Socially inept, to put it politely; arms stiff by his side like a wax-dummy. He is polite, well
meaning, sweet even, but sort of empty. Characterless. If only I could combine Keith’s best traits with Steve’s.

“I
– I could pay.”

Take the hint Keith
; I’m trying to let you down gently. I look around rather than answer, less than subtle, but if a sledgehammer is what’s needed. The foyer has already emptied. Ghostly echoes of eight films merge together in the background. Laughter erupts from one screen, closely followed by gasps of shock in another. Just like the real world, some are laughing their heads off while elsewhere others cower in fear.

An extremely bored looking woman in overalls passes by. She empties a bin into a blac
k bag and moves on to the next.

“No, really Keith, I couldn’t. I don’t want to take advantage.” I cup his elbow, the least erogenous zone I can think of, and give it a gentle squeeze. “Thanks all the same, but I’m a little tired anyway. I’ll give the drink a miss. Maybe next time.” Damn, why’d I say that?

Keith smiles, shakes his head, and places his hand over mine; trapping it against his elbow. “I didn’t mean I would pay for a drink. I– I mean I could help you out. You know. I’ve got some money from when mother–”

“What? No!” I drag my hand from Keith’s gentle but insistent grip. “No, I couldn’t.” The protest must have been louder than I intended, because the woman emptying the bins looks up and stares for a while. I hold the woman’s gaze until she looks away and then turn to face Keith.

The look on his face reminds me of being back at school, the scrawny boy in class who got picked on for wearing raggedy clothes. Moffet he was called. I don’t recall his first name. We had to pick class representatives. Rosie Foster was the most popular girl, and naturally, it was no surprise, all the boys voted for Rosie. All except Moffet, that is. Moffet voted for me. The class erupted into laughter, but he didn’t seem to mind.
Why Sally
? someone shouted,
you fancy her
?
She gonna be your girlfriend
? Feeling my blood boil with embarrassment I screamed at Moffet. I can’t recall what I screamed, but he had the same expression as Keith does now: a deflated, wounded expression of rejection.

“It’s very kind of you to offer Keith, but,” my hand hovers towards his elbow a moment before I draw it back and busy it with the task of holding the clasp of
my bag. “I couldn’t, really. I–”

“You could p-pay me back anytime. There’d be no rush.”

“No, I couldn’t... it’s... We should go.”

Out in the dark of night, away from the accusing spotlight-glare of the foyer, which seemed to know all about the Moffet incident, at least I don’t have to face Keith’s hurt-puppy-dog-eyes. The gesture was typical of what I’ve come to learn of him: all give with no expectation of anything in return. He is probably, no, definitely, the most genuine person I know, perhaps the best friend I’ve got for that matter, now that Kerry has grown even more acerbic than
usual. Despite all that, I cannot think of him as partner material. It isn’t his looks or his awkwardness; I’ve come to find that side of him quite endearing. There just isn’t any spark. He doesn’t set me alight in any way. People have arranged marriages, don’t they? Surely those people can’t have a spark to begin with. No, I’m not even going to consider it. The tap-tap of my heels are the only sound between us, and make the lack of speech painfully quiet as Keith trudges by my side as silent as a shadow. He threw me a lifeline, and I was more than ungrateful, I was downright rude.

“Maybe I could let you pay for the pictures next week,” I offer. “I
f you’d still like to that is?”

“Yes, I would. Thank you.”

He sounds so enthusiastic that I feel even worse. Not one hint of a grudge in his voice. “You don’t have to thank me, Keith. Not for agreeing to let you pay for me to go out. You really do need to stop being so deferential. Sorry. Look now you’ve got me doing it.”

“Sorry..
. Sorry.”

We share a chuckle as we step into the bus-shelter. Splinters of toughened-glass that have proven to be not quite tough enough for a night in the city crunch under our feet. It’ll be replaced in the morning only to be broken again next week
– if it even lasts that long. If it gets broken all the time, what’s the point in fixing it? They should scrap the idea of making things look nice and return to the dependability of boring but unbreakable concrete. Like many things these days, it makes me think of Steve.

“It would be a shame though,” Keith says, with seeming randomness.

My mind automatically links his statement to my bus stop rumination, and I think he’s saying it would be a shame if the council returned to concrete bus stops rather than fix things that are only going to get broken again, but then I realise it was a thought and not spoken out loud.