TICK to the TOCK (A Coming-of-Age Story)

by Matthew Turner

  "Gentlemen, gentlemen, please, please get up," Wil said. "This is the day, my friends. This is the day." He pulled on our sheets and slapped our thighs, dashing in and out of the bathroom and uttering words under his breath. "Paris, the real Paris, the Paris the average tourist never sees, awaits us," he said.

  Soon, we sat outside an old coffee shop, devouring black heaven and golden pastry goodness. The wooden chairs were off-putting at first, and the chipped, fading paint caused concern. But this is a day of sunshine and hope, so, sitting around this rickety old table, it feels right. As though residing in a gleaming new build wouldn't.

  Walking the streets before was peaceful, but this is therapeutic. This day, this turquoise shack of a building, this sight of cobbled roads and cracked, frail pavement is what we need. We've been tourists, but now it's time for more. This is a part of Paris nobody cares about, but at the same time, you sense those who do adore it.

  Blowing by, the cool wind chills my fingers, but sitting inside isn't an option: the passing attractions far too great. Long legs in elegant tights and tight-fitting jeans; various shades of auburn locks, sometimes loose and free to flow, other times up and tightly knotted; one chic item after the next, attached to an equally chic figure; high heels and low heels and no heels at all. It's a delightful parade, and although Ethan simply sips his coffee, Wil and I are on patrol—Wilbur in particular in good spirits, already confessing his love on no fewer than five occasions.

  "I'm in love, gentlemen, I'm in love with today... the people... this very street with this very coffee shop sitting ever so quietly on the edge of it. I mean, look," he says, pointing towards a hole-in-the-wall type coffee service. "Isn't it lovely? A little shack attached to a much grander shack, but look at those queuing and readying themselves for the coffee and teas and continental supremes. Paris is alive right now, so early and full of bounce." He finishes off his coffee.

  "It's a beautiful day," I say.

  "We need more days like this, gents. More, lots more, every day just like this one. We'll strive for the sunshine and go to bed late and rise early and leave exhaustion for another life, a time when we're back in York," he says, moving his arm around the table and pointing towards the hustle and bustle just a few feet away. "I love this—oh, and look at her, why, she's an angel, the most amazing angel—and her, oh, she's even better. Do you see her face? Look, Ethan, look, look at her face. She's a peach."

  A girl will get hurt tonight. Not in a physical manner, but by the charm and wandering words of the specimen to my left. A lady of leisure will succumb as he seduces and reduces her to nothing. Where some desire sex and excitement, Wil yearns to fall in and out of love in an instant.

  "Ethan, do you see? Do you see Paris? It's so much lovelier today, don't you see?"

  He yawns. "Yeah, it's lovely. I wish you'd calm down, though. You're going to have a heart attack if you're not careful. Or give me one."

  "Ethan, m'boy, you kid, you kid, but I like you all the same." He's on his feet, peering down at us and moving towards the crowd. "Boys, let's go back to the hotel and collect some supplies. I have a plan, but you must trust me."

  I look at Ethan at the same time he looks at me. This version of Wil is Ethan's worst nightmare, a spontaneous eruption of uncontrollable energy. Although it's only been a few days, I sense Ethan's anxiety. I practically smell the nerves and taste his trepidation.

  "What do you think?" I ask. He laughs and shakes his head, picking up his coffee and draining it dry.

  "Yes, yes, let us fall in love some more. The city of love, on a lovely day, with three handsome lovesick lads. Yes. Yes."

  Standing up, I push the frail chair under the even frailer table, unable to see how either held my weight. This small slum-like shop is far from eye catching, but perfect as it sinks into the much grander cream-stoned building. If it was new with vibrant paint, it would look out of place, but as it is, old and fragile and verging on disrepair, it's perfect.

  "Ethan, m'boy, look at this," says Wil, standing over an old bollard. "Think, just think who's passed this over the years. I can imagine an old French cad-of-a-man drifting by with an umbrella in one hand and a fresh bag of baked delights in the other." He's quickly on the move, stopping abruptly in front of a rusty drain. "And this, Dante, m'lad, think about a hundred years ago, no, two hundred. Think about all that has passed this drain. Think about everything passing over it and through it and into it. This, boys, this is what we came away for. To live."

  "I don't know, mate. It probably housed poverty and disease," Ethan says.

  Wil dismisses it with a simple shrug, moving on to his next mission, a vintage bicycle chained to a railing. "No, this is a place where art was made and poetry written and songs sung. The beauty of yesterday was great, but this is what we came for. To live, no?"

  Days like these are when Wilbur Day's true vibrancy comes to light. The average day brings bounce, but occasions like this offer vim. I'm lifted by it, unable to fight his positivity. I shouldn't be capable of smiling right now, not with what occurs within my body, but I am, and so is Ethan, the pair of us lost in Wilbur Day's colourful ways.

  He not only wears his clothes at times like this, but is them. His well-worn salmon-coloured shirt hangs from his waist, half tucked in, half not. His cream chinos are dirty and frayed and meant for summer, not the season we are in. They stop an inch before his ankle begins, his naked feet consumed by tatty brown loafers. It's cold, but he doesn't shiver. His sleeves are rolled up, warm from the offer of life and all that comes with it.

  "So, what's this surprise," I ask, edging closer and trapping Ethan between the two of us.

  "No, no, I shall not tell. I shall not share."

  "Oh come on—"

  "Smell, lads, smell. Don't you love the aroma of this street? The linger of crusty bread and the chilled morning air, and how everything is so close to one another. When a car passes by, you taste it, but it's not bad like it was yesterday in those tourist traps; instead, it has character. I can smell it... and taste it... and breathe it." He takes one mouthful of air after another, lifting his chest after each.

  "Come on, you crazy fool," I say, wrapping my arm around his shoulder. "Everything is perfect this morning, isn't it?" I continue. "Thanks for being here, guys. I'm glad you refused to listen to me."

  "You're welcome," says Ethan, wrapping his arm around me so the three of us are locked in one large chain. "I can't believe we've never done this before."

  "You? You can't believe it? My oh my, my cousin the dark horse. Did you ever think we'd get him out of his crazy routine, Wil?"

  "Nope, nope, never thought I'd see the day."

  The three of us continue down the street arm-in-arm-in-arm. We should have done this years ago. I should have done this years ago. So much time wasted, thinking instead of doing. Talking instead of walking. Right now, I smile, and I'm happy, and although it'll soon turn to fear and angst, for this single moment, everything is okay. It's as it should be.

  Moving from a strip of smooth, concrete pavement and onto a bumpy and rocky cobbled path, we pass an old relic sitting outside of his shop—a mug of steaming coffee perched on his lap as he gazes towards the morning rush. It's all so lethargic and peaceful and nice.

  "What are you thinking of, Wil?" I ask, his head flipping from one side to the other and taking in his surroundings. Each sway of the neck causes his bird-nest mop to flap and move. His curly locks are cut short down the back and sides, but left largely untouched on top. It's a bowl, a nest, a bush of lively loops that flick and twist around one another and move with each of his movements.

  "I think today will be wonderful," he says. "This evening, Dante, the two of us should sneak away and write. Just like old times, my friend."

  I grasp his shoulder tighter. "You know what? That sounds perfect."

  "Yes, yes, yes indeed. Oh yes, today will be wonderful."

  "You sure about that?" says Ethan, stopping suddenly and breaking the bond that shackles
us.

  Looking in front, I understand why. The lively bustle of Paris dims, the volume turned down to a near inaudible hush. The birds stop chirping and the car horns blaring. The constant hum of chatter disappears and the sound of footsteps drift away. Danii's before me, perched on the edge of a suitcase, a beautiful half-silhouette in the hostel's shadow.

  3rd November—Paris:

  Recommended Listening:

  You’re Not Coming Home Tonight—First Aid Kit

  People Help The People—Birdy

  Flightless Bird, American Mouth—Iron & Wine

  The white in her eyes has a hint of pink, one I've never seen before. This is a girl I've stayed up all night with, nursed one hangover after another, and watched and analysed for hours. Never has the white been anything but serene, but here it is, tainted red and hurt.

  Her soft, shiny hair absorbs the early morning sunlight, each layer of brown on full show, one after another after another. It hangs over her left shoulder, her index finger twisting and twirling a thick lock against her palm before it springs back to normal. Her smile isn't on show, instead, a pout that sends lines up her cheek.

  A strange churn rides up from my abdomen to the tip of my tongue. The headaches are torture, but this is worse. I want to walk to her, wrap her up and bury my head in her orange sundress littered with red and yellow flowers. I remember when she first bought this dress, and I also remember wanting to rip it from her and devour the slim body beneath, kissing my way from top to bottom.

  Right now, I want to weep into it, make parts of the dress darker with my sorrow. Why is she here? I've spent restless nights pushing the thought of you away. We said our goodbyes. We had our time. I let you go, so why are you here?

  She continues her silence, her gaze locked on mine.

  "Well well well, I wasn't aware we'd invited the brothel's star attraction," says Wil, breaking the unbearable quiet and taking a few quick steps towards her. She doesn't move an inch. "I'd like to say it's a pleasure, DaniELLA, but it really isn't."

  "Wilbur," she states, her stare unmoving. "Here I was, wondering if this situation might make you somewhat humane."

  "Funny how a dog talks about human—"

  "That's enough you two," says Ethan, standing next to Wil. He takes a few steps towards Danii and whispers something in her ear, breaking her stare for the first time.

  I have no idea what he's saying to her, or indeed her reply. With a sudden chill, I'm cold, but it's not from a breeze or a change in temperature. It's a shiver from within.

  "Okay, enough niceties. I think it's time you get on your way—"

  "Wil, leave it!" says Ethan, spinning away from her.

  "Dante, m'lad, you don't owe this one anything," Wil says, turning to me and pointing backwards. "This isn't about her..."

  His lips move, but I take nothing in. My forehead is beginning to ache. She's here but I have no idea why, and why now... why now and not last week whilst I was still in York? She's had an entire month to come and apologise or shout or do whatever it is she's here to do. Why now? Why here? Why...

  "Wil, enough!" I say, clenching my fist. "I suppose we should talk," I continue, this time to Danii.

  "Dante, you don't owe her anything," Wil says, bowing his head into mine.

  "Wil, just... don't. I'm fine."

  I walk past her and up the steps separating us from the hotel lobby. It's a pleasant lobby although far from spectacular, but the three of us decided our first stop on this trip would be that of comfort. No hostels or one-star bargains. Instead, a place we can rest and prepare in style. Squalor awaits, this I'm sure, but for now, we cling to leisure.

  Walking single file through the lobby, we're surrounded by paintings and lamps. I start tackling the steep steps, and we remain in silence. I barely notice she's behind me, although I sense her, the smell of her, that smell I thought I'd never taste again. The mixture of honey and coconut, the dizzying aroma pouring into my throat. For so long I took it for granted, but now I appreciate it above anything... everything.

  The memory of a passionate shower lingers, me sneaking in to surprise her with kisses and helpful hands. My tongue caressed her entire body, the smell of honey and taste of coconut playing with my senses as the thud of water beat down from above. It wasn't the only time we had passion in the shower, far from it, but right now, it's all I can think about.

  Continuing to push up the steps, we pass the third floor and onto the fourth and final one. I can't look behind or break the hush of nothing. I don't know what to say; indeed, what do you say to a girl you loved—still love—who only recently closed the door on you, not only literally, but figuratively forever.

  Why are you here?

  I'll never forget our first date, the nerves and nausea rumbling around my starving insides. First dates aren't hard; they're usually the easiest. After all, at this stage, you know so little about the other person that a mountain of questions await. With Danii, it was different, but I knew this before laying eyes on her.

  "Sarah, would you like a drink?" Those were the first words I heard from Danii's soothing lips, although at the time I didn't know who she was, nor what she looked like. Speaking with Ethan, in our friend Chris' kitchen during a party, I froze mid-sentence.

  "And?" Ethan asked. "What about—"

  "Shhh," I cut him off, needing to find the face that belonged to those captivating tones, and there she was—those lips, eyes, nose, hair, everything... I was finished. "Who. Is. She?" I asked, to nobody in particular.

  "Danii Adams," said Chris, who must have overheard me in passing. "Not bad, ey?"

  "Yeah. Not. Bad. At. All."

  I obsessed from afar for most of the evening, wanting, but unable to say hello. She had an unnerving hold over me, a pull I didn't understand, and one I still can't comprehend.

  "I must speak to her," I said to Ethan and Chris, over an hour into my obsession.

  "Then speak to her," said Ethan.

  "I can't. She's too... too... I don't know. She's too, something."

  "I'll speak to her," said Chris.

  "No!"

  "It's fine, it's fine." And he was gone before I could stop him, me rocking from one foot to the other and half hiding behind Ethan.

  "Oh my god what is he doing this is the worst thing to ever happen to me ever, and to think I wasn't even going to come tonight, and I can't believe he's over there and..." I tailed off because she was looking at me for the first time, her smile wide and her finger twirling a lock of hair.

  Chris brought her over. "Dante, this is Danii. Danii, this is my good pal, Dante."

  "Hi," she said.

  "Hi," I said.

  And Chris talked and so did Ethan, and so did she, I think, but I didn't hear any of it because my insides danced a dance they'd never danced before.

  "So, how do you know Chris?" she asked me, after Chris and Ethan left to gather drinks.

  "School," I said.

  "Nice. I'm here with my friend Sarah. I don't know anybody, but it seems like a nice crowd."

  "Yeah," I said, apparently unable to form a full sentence.

  "Yeah." She smiled, although it wasn't a nervous or pitying smile. It was genuine and lovely, her eyes lighting up, the lines running from her mouth all the way up her cheek.

  "Well—" but she was cut off by her friend Sarah, who approached from behind and whispered into her ear. "Okay, well we're going, apparently," she said, still smiling.

  I died a little.

  "But it was nice meeting you, Dante."

  "Yeah, you too."

  She laughed. "Look, you seem like a nice enough guy. Seeing as I can't stay longer to hear you say more than three words, how about we meet up next week?"

  "Really?" I asked.

  "Only if you want to—"

  "No, that would be nice. Here..." I said, handing her my phone, panting slightly like a dog.

  She keyed in her number. I watched her walk away, and early the next morning, I sent her a text. We
arranged to have a meal only two days later, but time seemed to drag, each hour clinging on for dear life.

  Eventually my impatience was put to rest, as I sat opposite her in a nice, but far from jaw-dropping, Italian restaurant.

  "So..." I started, but had no idea how to finish. Subsequently, I began most of my sentences like that for the remainder of the evening. "So..." I stammered. "How's the pasta?"

  "It's nice, thank you. Yours?"

  "Yeah."

  She laughed. "You know, for a writer, you don't seem too comfortable with words."

  "Who says I'm a writer?" I said, my forehead greasy with sweat.

  "I asked around. Going to be a famous journalist one day, right?"

  I returned the laugh, my chest easing for the first time in days. "Something like that. Although I wouldn't call being a journalist a writer."

  "No?"

  "Not really, no."

  "They write, don't they?"

  "In part."

  "Well, I'd say you're a writer then. Anyway, my sources tell me you happen to be rather good at writing. You'll have to read me one of your masterpieces, someday," she said, smiling and biting her bottom lip, twirling locks of loose hair hanging over her left shoulder.

  I needed her right then, in many ways, I fell in love with her the moment she smiled and bit her lip. Maybe I fell in love the moment I heard her voice, but whenever it occurred, a dark, horrible part of me hated her for it.

  There are no pressures on first dates, but there was on this one. They shouldn't feel like a job interview, but this one did. And although my pounding heart settled, and my sentences grew longer, more impressive, somewhat worthy of a conversation with an angel like Danii... I knew within minutes of that first date that I needed her, loved her, and hated her because of it.