Young Writers Society

OK, I just sat down and wrote this, cos I was feeling a bit frustarted. I think it helped me feel better, but I'm not sure if it works. It's probably just my random ramblings, but any comments would be appreciated - is it worth working on? Oh, I know the title's rubbish - I'm working on it!

Wrong Time, Wrong Place, Wrong Person…

I emerge from the bar into the chill night air, and climb the brick steps, avoiding the gaze of someone I would rather not talk to. I pass by a woman dressed in a spectacular red gown. It looks, to my eye, medieval, but I was never that keen on history, dropping it at the first possible chance, so my opinion on this count is, at best, unreliable. The man she is talking to has painted his face a deep shade of green. It is Halloween weekend, and I feel underdressed in my jeans and jumper.

I turn right at the top of the steps, and return to my friend and my drink. The river flows steadily beside us, not silent, but drowned out by the noise that is inevitable when a large number of people get together and drink, especially when a considerable number of them are students.

My friend is smoking. Since meeting her I have become a dedicated passive smoker, even if only when out for a drink. Someone has come up and asked her for a cigarette. It’s strange, the bond that smokers seem to share: they have absolutely no qualms about sharing their outrageously priced drug of choice with a complete stranger, yet, just like the rest of us, I’m pretty sure they’d hesitate when asked to share their last Rolo, even with a friend.

He smiles sheepishly at us as the wind tears at the feeble flame of the lighter, and his cigarette remains firmly unlit. Turning his back, he cups his hand protectively around the end and tries again. My friend and I exchange amused glances. Despite the best efforts of the weather, combustion is eventually achieved, and he turns back to us, grinning. It is clear that he is going to stay.

He’s on our course, he says. He’s seen me in the lectures. I smile and act surprised and we talk lightly about the lecturers and the films and the work, and about how making people get up at nine in the morning and then expecting them to concentrate is nothing short of straight stupidity. But I’m beginning to feel slightly uneasy.

As we talk, I notice that he has a slight depression on his lip, as though he had a cut there that healed badly. He’s a bit shorter than me, I think, and has light hair, styled in small spikes. He talks rapidly, and shifts topics as though we were speed dating. I find it hard to keep up. My friend nods and smiles, but English is her fourth language, and his accent is strong. And he keeps looking at me.

Eventually, the inevitable question comes up: What’s your favourite film? Being a film student, I feel ashamed at my complete lack of knowledge of any film ever deemed a ‘classic’, and of any with any political or social importance. I mean, I only watched ‘Reservoir Dogs’ for the first time yesterday, and I didn’t even like it that much. I reason with myself that that is the whole point of studying it; to learn more. But it still feels like a lame excuse.

I tell him my favourite film is ‘Moulin Rouge’. The new one; I haven’t even seen the old one. Still, everyone knows what I’m talking about. Several people in my film seminar actually laughed. I feel a bit better, though, when he tells me that his favourite film is ‘Star Wars’.

He offers to buy us both a drink. I order an Archers and Lemonade. As soon as he has descended into the mass of bodies in a bid to reach the bar, my friend makes a face, and says he is irritating her. I remind her that we are living with, quite possibly, the most irritating person in the world, and that she should be thankful at least that we are not out with him. He is, tonight, at the union, covered in blood, and probably scaring people more than usual. She is not convinced, but I have at least changed the topic, and we bitch quite happily until our drinks arrive.

By this time we have retreated to the inside, as the wind is getting serious, and, having previously felt under-dressed due to my lack of costume, I now feel under-dressed simply for my lack of a coat, scarf and gloves. There proves no such problem in the bar, the improbable number of bodies it is housing providing enough heat to ensure a temperature change from freezing to stifling the second you step through the doorway. I receive my drink, a Smirnoff Ice, of which I have already had two, and begin to feel slightly sick. I know I cannot finish it, and wonder how I can surreptitiously deposit it unnoticed on a nearby table. I don’t want to seem ungrateful.

This is not a problem, however, as the bell rings and people start to move. My other housemate has turned up and is impressed that our new ‘friend’ bought us both a drink. He thinks the guy is ‘sound’. But he is drunk, and would probably consider our irritating housemate ‘sound’, so long as it was his round.

As my housemates prepare to leave, our new friend turns to me and says ‘Can I have your number?’ The uncomfortable feeling in my stomach tightens. But worse is to come. As we exchange phones, his friends appear and surround us, saying, with the usual subtlety of drunk, male students, ‘Is this the girl from your course that you fancy?’ then laughing raucously at their staggering wit. We are both incredibly embarrassed, but eventually they get bored and move on. He is obviously worried about the damage they may have done, as he rings the number I have given him, just in case. My phone rings, of course, and he is visibly relieved. Obviously encouraged, he asks to walk me home. I think of my friend’s car parked up the street, and the long walk up the hill. I say I am tired. He begs: ‘Please, please, please…’ I guess it’s kind of pathetic, but then so am I; I give in. His fingers grasp for mine, and I tense and pull away slightly. Another failed attempt, and he asks if I feel uncomfortable. I nod, and smile apologetically.

Out in the quiet of the dark streets, we talk a bit more. He tells me that doesn’t really smoke. He has poisoned his lungs for me. I feel miserable. I know he is not going to get what he wants.

We’re walking up the main street, and he says ‘So, I saw you there, and I recognised you, and I thought, ‘How can I go over and talk to her?’…’ I smile and try and move the conversation onto neutral ground; I ask about his home and his music taste, tell him my favourite bands and smile when he only recognises one. I kind of like that, like they’re my own well kept secret. Even when I choose to tell someone, no-one understands, so they’re still mine. Still secret.

He keeps coming back to it, though, even when we’re halfway up the hill, and he says he’s tired and needs a rest. He heads for a bus shelter and sits down. I sense danger. I try to keep him talking, but he looks up at me and says ‘Can I kiss you?’ I feel the blood rush to my face, and I’m glad it’s dark. I know I must look reluctant, but I can’t help it. I eventually tell him he can kiss me on the cheek. He moves closer and does so hurriedly. Then he sits silently and stares down at the ground. The tension is unbearable. I feel slightly sick.

“So, are you rested now?” I try and make it light-hearted, but it sounds as feeble as it is. He nods. A few more seconds of silence.

“So, shall we carry on?” Another nod, and we are moving again. I feel terrible, and I tell him I’m sorry, although I’m not sure if I should be. But we begin to talk again, and the tension eases. He pulls two leaves from a bush by the path and gives one to me. I tell him I’ll keep it, and he says that as long as it’s still green, that means he’s waiting for me. I guess it’s romantic in a lopsided kind of way. At least he seems to have realised that he’s not going to get what he wants as well now.

We approach my house, and he stares in wide-eyed amazement. He’s living in halls, with no carpet on the floor, so I guess my house looks a bit like a palace to him. At the front door, we both smile and hesitate, and then lean forward at the same time, so that his lips miss my cheek, and brush my earlobe instead. It’s fitting; it kind of suits the awkward uncertainness of the whole evening.

I climb the stairs and unlock my room, wondering if my housemates are back yet. The house seems quiet. I take out the leaf, and pin it up next to the balloon I got on the first night we met. It’s still alive, if a little limp looking. I want to tell you that.

I lean against the wall, and sigh, and wish whole-heartedly that I had spent the evening with you. You’ve been silent for so long now.

I wonder which will die first – the leaf, or the balloon. It doesn’t really make a difference; I miss you.