And Then We Fall

by Bryce Taylor

  Obviously.

  She quirks an eyebrow.

  "Yeah, I finished half an hour ago and thought I'd grab some food before turning in," she says, gesturing at two enormous pieces of toast on her plate, one with a tiny bite taken out it.

  "Not hungry?" I ask.

  "Oh, sometimes I think I'm hungry, and then when the food turns up I just don't feel like it anymore," she says.

  "I'm pretty sure that is normal after working two eighteen-hour stints in a row," I say.

  She winces and holds up four fingers.

  "Right, four eighteen-hour shifts," I correct. How the hell she is even alive right now I don't know.

  By the time I've ordered my coffee and come back with it she is staring blankly at her toast looking completely shattered.

  "You aren't driving home, are you?" I ask.

  She shrugs.

  Of course, she is still driving. Bloody surgeons thinking they aren't mere mortals like the rest of us.

  "I only live ten minutes down the road," she says, "and the thought of having to talk to a cab driver is just too much to handle right now."

  "You are an idiot," I tell her.

  She nods.

  "Yeah, I know," she agrees congenially, "I clean up the carnage of enough car crashes to know better."

  "Can I drive you home?" I ask.

  "Nah, that's ok, I live in the midst of a rabbit warren of streets, you'd never find your way back out again," she says, an odd look on her face, "but thanks for offering."

  "Do you want some toast?" she asks, gesturing at her still barely touched plate.

  "What's on it?" I ask dubiously, staring at the black spread.

  "Vegemite," she says looking playful.

  "I've heard stories about this, I thought only Australians ate it?" I ask her.

  "I'm an Aussie," she says in mock outrage, "I might have a bit of an English accent, but I do have a passport."

  "Oh yeah, when did you get that?" I ask.

  She grins.

  "Ok, I only got the passport last year," she says, "but I count being an Aussie from when I came around to Vegemite and that was five years ago."

  She pauses. "After a few years of intensive effort to be able to stomach the stuff," she clarifies.

  I pick a piece up dubiously and smell it. I tentatively taste a tiny corner.

  Hmmm. Salty and tangy and something else. The flavour of overly yeasty bread, not at all like Marmite.

  It's different. There really isn't much to recommend it, I certainly wouldn't order it but it is vaguely edible.

  Leigh is looking crestfallen.

  "Is that actually your first time eating Vegemite?" she asks as if somehow, I'm breaking a rule by not hating it.

  "Yep," I say smugly and then take another bite just to be annoying.

  "Seriously?" she says, looking disappointed. "I gagged the first time I ate it, it nearly killed me to eat the whole slice."

  "Why did you keep eating it?" I ask laughing.

  "A girl dared me to," she says as if that explains everything.

  I raise an eyebrow.

  "She was pretty," she clarifies grinning.

  I can't help but think that Leigh could probably do with some sustenance.

  "I dare you to eat the other piece before I eat mine," I say.

  "I was eight," she exclaims.

  I shrug, take another bite of my toast, raise an eyebrow, holding her eyes with mine in challenge.

  "I'm not going to eat it," she tells me firmly.

  I ignore her and take another bite.

  She grits her teeth for a moment, wavers, snatches the other piece of toast from the plate and takes two large bites.

  We eat in silence, eyes narrowed until finally Leigh finishes her last mouthful a moment before I take my last bite.

  "I win," she says triumphantly.

  I wipe my mouth with my serviette. The taste is not growing on me at all.

  "So, not much has changed since you were eight?" I say in amusement.

  "I'm competitive," she says in mock outrage.

  "You are easily manipulated," I tell her.

  She shrugs.

  "Well, it depends on who is doing the manipulating," she says looking me in the eyes.

  Is she flirting with me?

  Please, god let her be flirting with me.

  "So, you wouldn't eat your toast for, say, Gloria?" I ask.

  She laughs and then thinks about it for a second, then she drops her head in her hands.

  "I probably would if she told me to," she mumbles, her face still buried in her palms.

  I like that she doesn't care if it isn't cool to admit that a middle-aged nurse tells her what to do. Plus one for her.

  "So why did you decide to come to Sydney?" she asks.

  "Are you trying to change the subject?" I ask.

  "Yes," she says, "I'm afraid you'll start to judge me if we keep talking about Gloria. "

  "Too late," I tell her and she drops her head back in her hands.

  I kick her boot with my foot.

  "Not in a bad way, I think it's kind of cute," I assure her.

  "Jesus Christ," she groans, "cute, I think that's worse."

  "I like it, that you do what you're told," I tell her, grinning, "you should always do what nurses tell you to do."

  "Even if it gets me in trouble?" she asks sarcastically.

  "Definitely then," I tell her falling into those blue eyes.

  She laughs and puts her hands up in the air in surrender. I get tingles up my spine when she laughs.

  "Also," she says, "I realise that you know an awful lot about me, and I don't have a Gloria to go and ask about you. It feels kind of one-sided."

  "Well since you are being good," I tell her, "I'm going to tell you about how I came to Sydney."

  She grins, tucks a booted foot up under her and leans forward over the table in interest, cradling her cup of tea in her long fingers.

  "Well, it all started back in County Cork in 1984," I crack.

  She doesn't laugh, if anything she looks really interested in hearing my entire life story.

  "Oh my god, I am not telling you my whole life story," I tell her.

  "You know mine," she tells me with a smile.

  "I don't, just little bits and anyway, you will fall asleep," I say pointedly, although she doesn't look as sleepy as she did before, sometime in the middle of our conversation she has brightened up.

  "I don't need sleep," she says smugly, "I've evolved out of it."

  "Fecking surgeons," I tell her, but my tone doesn't have the heat in it that it would have a month ago.

  She smiles at me again, a crooked half-smile that makes me want to reach across the table and take her hand in mine.

  "So, County Cork, 1984?" she reminds me.

  "Sweet Jesus," I say letting out a long breath. Me and my big mouth. If only I learnt a lesson from this.

  "Right, County Cork, 1984," I tell her and smile at her raised eyebrow and clarify, "10th May, 1984. At the time the biggest news was that a jet plane was stranded on the village race track after an emergency landing. It ended up being stuck there for weeks because it literally rained constantly the whole time in typical Irish fashion."

  "The pilot and crew who were Mexican were billeted in the village for a few weeks causing more gossip than you can possibly imagine. "

  "My Mam was so happy that none of the meddling gossips noticed that my da hadn't come back home for the birth she gave me a Mexican sounding middle name after the pilot's home country."

  Let's start with the good stuff.

  Leigh raises an eyebrow again in question.

  "Maria," I tell her. The eyebrow goes a little higher.

  "Aednet Maria Cronin, so that it still sounded appropriately Catholic to Mam," I tell her with a sigh, then make a 'now you' gesture with my eyebrow in return.

  "Greyson," she tells me smiling, not skipping a beat. "So, Gloria missed a detail?"

  Leigh Greyson
Grenfell. It's almost too sexy. I bet she doesn't have a problem with pronouncing her name weirdly.

  I know I'm blushing.

  Again.

  "What?" she asks her brow creasing at my expression.

  "I was just thinking that you probably don't have the problem of people not being able to spell or pronounce your name," I say smiling.

  She laughs.

  "Yeah, my problem is that my name makes people expect their surgeon to be a man," she says wryly. "It does lead to some very awkward situations. Honestly my parents could have given me a Jane or an Anne for a middle name, rather than going for the inherited one."

  She stops, trailing off.

  "Not that you even needed to know my name to peg me wrong, it just took the car I was driving, right?" she says grinning at me.

  "Shut up," I tell her, "do you want me to tell you about County Cork or not?"

  She sobers immediately, nodding and leaning forward, her eyes on mine. All I can think is surely she must like me, she looks so keenly interested in hearing my life story.

  Or maybe she is just really tired and is actually falling asleep with her eyes wide open.

  "So, County Cork, you are born, you dad isn't around and a plane has crash landed in your village, you get a Mexican middle name in celebration of this event and?" Leigh asks impatiently.

  Or maybe she just really likes life stories?

  "Ok, ok," I tell her, "so we get home to Mallow, which is in the middle of fecking nowhere. It's just me, my brother Daniel, my nan and Mam." I let out a short breath. I wasn't really prepared to go into my life story. This is the kind of thing that I prefer to talk about after a long night of drinking, in the hazy glow of insobriety.

  Or not at all.

  "Daniel is five," I tell her and then stop.

  Leigh is watching me, clear blue eyes affixed to mine.

  "He is actually the reason my da hasn't come home. Daniel is, well, different." I can't help but say this flatly. I never want to talk about this but suddenly I feel like the words are banking up in a wave in my throat, pushing to flow forth.

  Leigh hasn't moved, but her eyes still gazing at me seriously.

  "He's autistic. You know not in a sexy, genius kind of a way. In a soul-sapping, tantrum throwing, non-verbal, violent kind of a way. He doesn't sleep. He doesn't eat. Sometimes he screams for days because his favourite show on the telly isn't on."

  Leigh is looking concerned, but thankfully not with sympathy. I hate pity.

  "So, my main memories of growing up are placating Daniel, staying out of Daniel's way, babysitting Daniel, covering up bruises that Daniel has given me and trying to convince other people that my Mam wasn't beating on me," I tell her flatly.

  Oh god. I can't do this.

  "Can I skip a few years?" I ask.

  There is no judgement in her eyes.

  "Sure," she says. "Can I ask one question though?"

  I nod.

  "What happened to the plane?" she asks curiously.

  I laugh shortly.

  "They ended up building a runway for it," I tell her. "We used to ride our bikes on it when I was a kid."

  Leigh looks a little incredulous.

  "Seriously," I tell her, laughing now, the mood broken.

  I take another mouthful of my coffee and try to think where to start again at. I don't really have any happy memories until I started college.

  Until Katie and Diarmuid.

  Up till then it was the constant struggle of Daniel, of being poor, of memories of Mam crying after a long day of work, of not having any friends, of living in a village where everyone knows your business.

  So, I start right there, at university and I talk and talk and talk right up until here, till arriving in Australia. My coffee is gone and my throat is dry and I need another drink.

  I'm turning from the counter when I see Leigh's eyes checking out my arse. I raise an eyebrow.

  "Were you checking me out?" I ask her, grinning as I return to the table.

  She looks up, straight into my eyes, startled. "No."

  Very defensively, too defensively.

  "No shit, you totally were," I tell her.

  She is blushing. I thought I had it bad with my fair skin, but she is definitely blushing despite her olive skin.

  "No, I wasn't," she says, looking hilariously awkward. Presumably, because I haven't corrected her assumption that I am straight.

  "And you are blushing," I tell her.

  "I'm tired," she says lamely.

  "So, when you are tired, your weary eyes just can't get off my arse?" I ask her.

  "I wasn't looking at your." She stops.

  "I was just looking off into the distance," she finishes lamely.

  "So, my arse isn't good enough for you to look at?" I ask her.

  Her eyes widen. If she could think straight and if she wasn't so completely sleep deprived, this wouldn't have come out of her mouth.

  "No."

  Her eyes widen even further. This is obviously not the right response.

  "Yes." And from the look on her face she knows this isn't either.

  Finally. "Oh, shit."

  She flashes me a grin.

  "I am never going anywhere with you when I am not in full command of my mental faculties," she tells me sincerely.

  I am of course laughing too hard on the inside not to let a little of my good humour leak out.

  "I'll look after you," I tell her. "You just promise to tell me the truth in future and you'll keep."

  She looks up at me and nods seriously, her lesson clearly learnt.

  "I promise I'll always tell you the truth in future," she tells me sincerely.

  "The whole truth, the truth and nothing but the truth?" I ask her.

  She makes a face, considering this and then nods. "Yes." A pause. "You?"

  "Yes," I tell her, smiling. The kind of promise one usually makes after a night out or after a lifetime of friendship. Not in a coffee shop on your third encounter.

  We are grinning at each other, the red fading from her cheeks.

  I should fix that.

  "So, were you checking me out?" I ask her insistently.

  "I agreed to tell you the truth in future," she says, grinning, her blushes coming back despite her bravado.

  "You know I think I believe Gloria when she says that you really are a massive wimp and not terrifying like everyone else thinks," I tell her.

  "Terrifying?" she asks, looking amused.

  Actually, the words were, 'terrifyingly cold-hearted bitch' but something tells me that the latter will hurt her feelings.

  "Terrifying, coming from a doctor or a nurse?" she asks.

  "Doctor," I tell her.

  "A guy?" she asks.

  "Yes."

  "Did he add 'cold-hearted bitch' to that?" she asks with her eyes narrowed.

  I nod reluctantly.

  We did just promise to tell each other the truth and I'm regretting it already.

  She laughs.

  "Good," she says and bares her teeth ferally, "I'm not here to be their fucking friends."

  Well, I guess that is one way of looking at it.

  "If it had come from someone on staff?" I ask.

  "I'd be devastated." She says this flatly and I can tell it's true.

  She looks at me sideways. "I wasn't checking you out," she says.

  She is telling the truth. Damn.

  "I guess I'll have to work on that," I tell her. "I'm obviously not doing very well if you aren't."

  Her eyebrows rise. This was not the response she was expecting.

  "You are gay?" I ask her, verifying.

  She nods cautiously.

  "And I am a girl," I state this. She nods reflexively anyway.

  "And you don't think I look good?" I ask.