by Les Zig
Julie eases the picture from my hands. ‘So you can’t look at it.’
‘I can but … it gets to me sometimes.’
Julie puts the picture back, turns it around to face the wall. ‘Maybe I’ll feel the same after Aunt Zoe passes away, although I think I’d rather remember her the way she is in pictures than the way she is now. I hate—like I actually hate—that she sacrificed so much of her life to take me on after my mother died, that she never had anything for herself, not even really a close friend or two. Now the only impressions she’s making on people who’ll remember her are that she’s catatonic, and they have to handfeed her, take her to do her business, and clean up after her.’ Her jaw clenches. ‘I wish I could tell everybody how alive she once was, so full of love, with a laugh that filled the room and you wanted to amuse her to hear it …’ She sighs. ‘Sorry. I did it again. I got emotional over Aunt Zoe so I got up and cleaned up to distract myself, and I’ve brought the conversation straight back to her.’
‘It’s okay.’
My arms begin to widen, to prepare for the hug, but—unwittingly, I think—Julie heads back to the couch.
Or maybe I misread the cue.
I grab the beers and join Julie. She takes a beer from me, then holds it up so I toast it.
‘What’re we toasting?’
Julie can’t answer immediately, as she takes a long swig from her beer. She sets the bottle down on the coffee table, then grabs the leather satchel from the armrest of the couch and sets it between us. The leather’s wrinkled and faded with age, and the flap is held closed by fine lace. Julie runs her hands across the face of the satchel.
‘Right, about this,’ she says. ‘I told you about my boss’s book?’
‘That he’d written one and you were organising a launch.’
‘This Thursday—you want to come?’
‘To the launch?’
‘Yeah. It’s at a bookstore in the city. At seven. I could meet you for a bite after work, if you’re interested—providing I can get free from work. I probably won’t though. It might be best if I meet you there.’
‘Am I welcome? I mean, wouldn’t it be only for guests?’
‘It’s open to the public. My boss wrote this book about exploring the untapped potential within each of us, about how fear and inhibition pigeonhole us in our lives and once we learn to transcend that, we’re capable of transcending our boundaries. It’s really a glorified self-help book.’
‘You’ve read it?’
Julie nods. ‘He wanted my opinion. He also interviewed me for one chapter—dealing with grief in adolescence, how it can define us, dictate the decisions we make …’ She rolls her eyes. ‘It’s common-sense stuff, unless you’re an idiot, then it’s probably genius. But it’s derivative—the book, that is. I’ve read a lot of these books and the bulk of them say the same thing. I don’t know why I keep reading them. It’s habit mostly, I guess—or maybe the hope I’ll find something worthwhile. Sometimes, I think, given what I’ve gone through, I should write my own.’
‘You could do that.’
‘I might, one day—add it to the list.’
‘The fuck-it list.’
Julie laughs. ‘Anyway, Don’s book isn’t horrible. It does have an interesting idea or two. But it’s not brilliant, which is surprising, because he is—or he can be—a brilliant lecturer.’
‘Lecturing and writing are two different things.’
‘Right. Right! And I saw him write this, struggling with the structure, regularly having these mental blocks where he would go blank on the word he needed and ask me to fill it in. Watching him, you’d think you’d asked a twelve-year-old to write about the finer points of brain surgery. Sorry, that sounded mean, and it wasn’t meant to be mean, but it brings me back to my point—finally.’
She tugs on the lace holding her satchel closed, then pushes the flap open to reveal my book. Scribbles in purple pen adorn the cover and some of the pages are dog-eared—and that’s just what I can see. She hauls the book out to reveal that a thick elastic band binds together three quarters of the book, and there are lots more dog-eared pages, some with multiple dog-ears. God knows how many more scribbles it contains.
‘I wrote on it and folded a few pages,’ she says. ‘Hope that’s okay.’
‘Sure …’
Julie gives me a sidelong glance. She must misinterpret my reticence, maybe thinking I didn’t want her marking my book. It’s not that, though.
‘It’s a printout,’ I say. Then I add tentatively, ‘Looks like you made lots of comments.’
‘Don’t worry,’ she says. ‘It’s good.’
Relief sweeps through me, relaxing muscles, regulating my breathing, until the doubt kicks back in. ‘You’re not just saying that because—’
‘No, it is. It’s not perfect, of course. I’ve scribbled notes throughout.’ Julie pulls off the elastic band and fans through the pages of that first three quarters—there are more ticks; occasional corrections of grammar or punctuation; then notes, sometimes only a word or two, sometimes until they fill the margins, wind around the text, and spiral onto the other side of the page. ‘But I really enjoyed it. You need to finish it.’
‘You’re really not just saying this?’
Julie rolls her eyes. ‘You have too many adjectives, a couple of the supporting characters are underdeveloped, and there’s one I think is redundant—you could take the stuff he does and give it to one of the others.’
I take the pages from her and slowly flick through them, reading her notes.
‘Also, the way the story develops,’ Julie goes on, ‘there’s a lot of stuff that happens in chapter four, that you could probably bring forward to chapter two …’ She throws her hands up. ‘You can go through it and decide if I’m mad or not.’
I go through the comments slowly—probably so slowly that she feels the need to justify why she’s written so many.
‘I’ve always read,’ she says. ‘Lots. I mean, lots. So I think I’ve developed an instinct for what works and what doesn’t—well, what works and what doesn’t for me. I hope it all makes sense—I know inside my head how I think something could work better, but I don’t know if I always successfully articulate it.’
At first, I scan the comments, bracing myself; then I’m reading a few words here and there; and then sentences. Every one is a pinprick that identifies some issue I hadn’t been able to grasp, but now explodes like a flare highlighting everything I need to know. She’s put thought into every suggestion, into every endorsement.
‘I’m sorry I took so long to read it,’ Julie says.
‘It hasn’t been long—’
‘For me it’s long—I tear through stuff. But I did enjoy it. I actually read it twice—the first time to see where things were going, and the second time so I could comment with foresight. I really did enjoy it.’
‘Really?’
‘Really.’
My gaze falls on that last quarter of the book she hasn’t handed over. ‘And that?’
Julie strokes the pages. ‘You said your ex didn’t think much of your writing. I hope I don’t overstep here, or offend you,’ she winces, ‘but I bet this bit was written when things weren’t going well with your relationship.’
‘As things were coming apart. Is it bad? Because I really was stressed and unfocused and—’
‘No no no, it’s not bad. It’s just different. First, the tone is different: it’s very angry and despondent. Hopeless, almost. And it grows increasingly worse as it goes on.’
I take a long drink of beer. ‘We were fighting a lot at the time—explosive, angry fights. I guess I need to rewrite from there, then. It probably explains why I’ve been stuck for so long.’
‘You don’t need to rewrite it.’ Julie places one hand on the bulk of the manuscript resting on my lap. ‘Continue from where this leaves off.’ Then she taps her hands on the smaller pile. ‘As for this, it’s actually good. Great. But it’s a different story. It reminded
me more of a short film or a play. You should actually do that.’
‘Do what?’
‘Turn it into a short film or play.’
‘But it’s not finished.’
‘No, it is finished. It ends with him at the door—does he go through or does he turn back? It’s up to whoever’s watching to determine what he does. Or submit it wherever they take short stories—where do they take short stories?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Then you need to look into that. But it’s very visceral. It’d be great as a play.’
‘What do I know about plays?’
‘You’ve got that community theatre down the road. Go check it out.’
‘Really?’
‘Surely you haven’t forgotten you have a community theatre down the road?’
‘No, I know about that. But, really? Turn it into a play?’
‘It’s words on paper here. You should do something with it. It’s a waste otherwise.’
‘I could cast you.’
‘Me?’ Julie’s large eyes go wider.
‘You said you wanted to be on the stage.’
Julie lifts her head, modelling herself as if she’s somebody high and mighty. ‘You’ll hear a crash of the door and I’ll waltz in, be a diva—how’s that?’
‘Sounds good.’
‘Careful what you wish for! But seriously, you should do something with it. You need to do something with it.’
I go to respond, to complain I can’t, or ask where it will get me, and then stop, because they’re not my words. Old instincts die hard—when they die at all. That was life before. This is life now. And Julie’s belief in me not only fills me with confidence, but exhilarates me.
‘There’s this, too.’ Julie pushes the satchel towards me. ‘Don bought a beautiful antique typewriter. It’s incredibly ostentatious. He had me pick it up on Monday, and I saw this. It’s second-hand, but I think it has more character because of that. Hope it’s okay.’
I pick up the satchel and smell the leather. The surface is worn, faded, and cracked, but those lines must offer their own stories. Somebody—or somebodies—owned this before me, stored their work in it, maybe tried to make a career from it. It has more experience than me.
‘And I brought up Don and his book to begin with because he’s got a doctorate and has been teaching for decades, he’s an accomplished academic, has more degrees than I can count, and he can now add “published author” to his CV, but your book is … a stratosphere better than his.’
‘What?’
‘Again, they’re different books, but you have a talent there. I can see it. You need to do this—’
I lean across the couch, throw my arms around Julie and hug her tight. For a moment, I can feel the openness of her arms either side of me, but then she folds them around me and runs one hand up and down my back. There’s an unspoken mutual consent in how long you engage in a hug; when you feel the beginning of withdrawal, you withdraw yourself. But now when Julie does start to pull back, I hold her, because I’m embarrassed not only by my affection, but by the adolescence of it, the way a child responds with gratitude.
‘How …?’ I begin, but don’t know how to finish. How are you single? How do you put up with me? How could I be so lucky to find you? How is this even happening? And then, overriding it all, is simply the realisation, I’m glad I found you.
‘You don’t have much confidence in yourself, do you?’
‘It doesn’t show, does it?’ I joke.
‘You come across as very genuine—not something I’ve encountered a lot.’ Julie pecks me on the lips. ‘I like that you’re genuine.’
She presses her hands against my chest and eases me back, back, back, until I’m lying on the couch and my book fans from my lap and across the floor. She kisses me, and I fumble with the hem of her blouse, unsure whether this is a prelude to intimacy or innocent affection, but she grabs the waistline of my jeans, tugs them so they unbuckle and unzip, and yanks them—and my underwear—down my legs. She tosses them to the floor.
‘Gonna keep those on?’ she says.
It takes a moment to click that she’s referring to my shirt and T-shirt, so I lift myself, pull them over my head, and throw them clear. Julie undresses much more elegantly, then lies back on top of me. She kisses me, her body warm, hair soft across the side of my face, the imitation leather of my couch squishy against my naked skin. I cup Julie’s buttocks; run my right hand up to her breast, but—as usual—my mind has disengaged from what’s happening and is settling in my crotch.
I’m not ready.
I want to be ready, but I’m not.
Julie lifts her hips, grinds her crotch against mine. She takes me in hand but I’m not hard enough to be guided into her.
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ I say.
‘It’s okay.’
She continues her kisses, on my lips, down my face and chest. I try to push all thoughts of being ready from my head, but it’s impossible now I’m aware that’s what I’m doing. Julie’s hair tickles me as it runs down my chest and I’m embarrassed by what she’s going to find when she gets to my crotch.
I sit up. ‘I’m sorry.’
Julie pulls herself up, folds her arms around me, rests her chin on my shoulder.
‘I know I’m all over the place.’
‘You’re okay sometimes,’ she says.
‘I think it’s when I don’t have time to think about anything.’
‘So I should just jump you?’
I can’t tell if she’s joking.
‘Or maybe we should go outside—you’ll be so busy worrying about being seen, you won’t have time to fret about it.’
‘Fretting is putting it mildly.’
She kisses my cheek, grabs my hand and gets up. ‘Come on.’
I anchor myself deeper into the couch. ‘We’re going outside?’
Julie lifts her head and laughs. ‘No! To bed.’
‘But—’
‘Just to bed—you attach a preconception to everything, don’t you?’
‘That’s an understatement. It’s like a fireworks display in my head.’
‘Have you always been like that?’
‘I think I always was, but I wasn’t as reactive to it.’
‘Let go.’ Julie tugs my hand. ‘Come on.’
Her butt faces me and for an instant her tattoo is starkly evident, a splotch of colours my eyes are about to sort. I still haven’t seen it, although a large part of that is our lack of intimacy, which then also means a lack of opportunity. Before I get the chance to work out the tattoo, I’m up from the couch and following her into bed, where we kiss for longer than I’ve ever kissed a girl without it going further, until my consciousness of the awkwardness dissipates into sensations and I revel in the warmth of her body, the softness of her skin, the way she tastes of beer and the sauce from the ribs, her mouth as she occasionally pulls on my lower lip, the wetness of her tongue against mine, the silkiness of her hair draped across my face, and the way the tuft of her pubic hair is just that little bit bristly against me.
Then her hand is on my erection.
14
I wake to rustling. My eyes don’t want to open and cold seeps in under the covers. The mattress creaks, rocks.
Julie slips out of bed, little more than a silhouette, the tattoo on her back dark and misshapen. I don’t know the time, but judging by the lack of light and the quiet, it’s got to be before morning—well before morning.
‘Sorry.’ Julie leans over the bed, brushes the hair from my face. ‘Didn’t mean to wake you.’ She kisses my cheek. ‘I have to go. I’ve got an early start, then school, then Don. Don’t get up.’ She kisses me again, lingering on my lips.
But I do get up and hug my arms around my chest as I follow her into the lounge where she finds her clothes. After she’s dressed, she comes over, hugs me, kisses me on the chin.
‘Go back to bed,’ she says. ‘It’s cold.’
‘Let
me make sure you get to your car.’
‘Naked?’
‘Sure. Why not?’
‘You strike me as a little more conservative.’
‘Not me.’
I walk her to the door, where we kiss again. ‘I forgot,’ I say, ‘but my sister has been asking me to bring you around for dinner. You don’t have to—I understand it’s quick.’
‘When?’
‘It’s open, although she was saying next week—maybe on Monday?’
Julie purses her lips as she thinks about it. ‘You know what? Sure!’
‘Really?’
‘Of course.’ Julie rises up on her tiptoes, pecks me on the lips. ‘Now, I really have to go. We’ll talk later.’
I open the door, keeping myself behind it. The darkness swallows her as she heads down the stairs, and the only way I know she’s in her car is when I hear the door open and close, and then see the headlights come on. The engine coughs reluctantly, then ignites. Her car pulls out onto the street, I close and lock the door, rush back to bed and pull the covers up to my chin. I expect to be asleep within moments, but now I’m wide awake.
The bed’s empty. I swipe my hands and legs to generate warmth but it only shows me how empty the bed is. So is my place. It always has been, but now it’s noticeable. It’d be easy to say Julie’s simply reminded me how nice companionship can be, but it’s more than that: she’s completed something I was never aware needed completion. Now that she’s gone all I can notice is her absence.
I drift in and out of sleep until my alarm buzzes, and after I pack the last quarter of my book into the satchel Julie bought me, it’s back to my normal routine, although there are a few examples of extravagant behaviour—singing in the shower, flipping my omelette in the frying pan, and even a twirl when I lock up and head for the station, satchel wedged under my arm. I know I’m being stupid but, sometimes, it’s nice to be stupid.
At work, I breeze through the morning, and my only deflation is when Julie messages to tell me that her workload won’t allow her to get away for lunch. Still, I go to Charisma’s. It’s the same barista, and we’ve developed an insidious relationship—I order, he’s dismissive, and we run through the farce of our exchange. I shouldn’t keep coming back here, but it’s become almost like marking territory, and I don’t want to—I refuse to—be chased out of here.