(no subject)
A duck, comprised of only black lines, is tattooed across her heart. It isn’t always visible, only on those days when she feels particularly flirty. She had it inked just after she found out that she was pregnant for the first time, she tells me one night over too many dirty martinis, with plans to add a duckling trailing behind after the birth. This was before she knew her uterus couldn’t hold a child. When, after draining my sixth martini, I work up the courage to ask, “How many ducklings should there be?” she tilts her head back, her normally wide, bright eyes, half lidded and red around the rims, and replies,
“My physician will tell you six.” I strain to hear her voice, barely a whisper, in the bustling pub.
“But what will you tell me?” I push. The answer comes out in a sort of wail, distorting her ruby lips, scrunching up her eyes, wrinkling her nose. Before me sits a woman so determined, so desperate to be a mother that she didn’t dare tell even her physician of five failed pregnancies. Maybe she was told to stop trying. Maybe that her life was in danger. But it didn’t matter. Having a baby was more important than even her life. That little glimmer of desperation breaking through the calm, successful, put-together façade grips me, and I want - need - to find out what else is under that mask.
The pub starts to clear and just as I am about to order another round, the clang of the town clock comes in through the open door. She looks up at me.
“What time is it, then?” she asks, raking her fingers through her long, ginger hair.
I pull out my phone and reply, “Midnight.”
“It’s my 28th birthday,” she giggles, “this calls for champagne!”
“I have a bottle at my flat,” I answer not even a beat later. She graces me with an upward curve of those perfect lips and drags me from the pub.
Hours later, after a few slurred toasts, and a hundred feverish kisses, I watch her sleep, sprawled on one side of my too big for just me bed. Her cheek rests against the pristine white sheet, inches below the offered, but unused pillow, and surrounded by a halo of curls. One arm dangles off the bed, while the other is curled up underneath her. I drag the duvet halfway up her back and go to the kitchen, pulling on a dressing gown as I go.
Over a cup of tea, I wonder if she’ll wake in the morning and tell me she’s straight. It’s happened before. Alcohol removes inhibitions and for many, brings out that hidden bit of bi-curiosity. Straight girls are the bane of my existence. I try to glean as much about sexuality as I can before I go to bed with anyone, but I’ve spent months with this one and she’s a mystery. I know she was married to a man at sixteen and divorced at twenty-five, but as for her interest in women? Nothing.
In the middle of my second cup of tea, I think that maybe it’s better off this way. The internet will warn you against falling in love with a writer as we are unpredictable. And because this isn’t just a profession. We can’t turn it off at the end of the day. Because you’ll show up in our words. The way you hold a fork will be how that man in the Italian restaurant eats his cannelloni. The way you wrap your hair around your finger will show up in the girl that sits in the back of the chemistry classroom. You will be immortalized in our words whether you like it or not. And that can be frustrating. So maybe it is best that when she wakes in the morning, she will tell me she is straight, because I don’t want to damn her to the life of loving a writer. Still, as I crawl back under the duvet and close my eyes, I can’t help but hope otherwise.
I’m awake first. I’m always awake first. I don’t know if it’s because I rise with the sun on most mornings, or the fact that I’m not used to another body in my bed, but my eyes are open before the clock hits seven, and out of bed, into the shower not ten minutes after. She is asleep still, just as she was the night before, arm off the bed, pillow still unused, curls everywhere. There’s no movement, even when I drop a shoe against the wooden base of my wardrobe while dressing. It’s her birthday, the first part of it that she’ll spend sober, anyway, and I want it to be memorable. Or at least good in any sense.
As I pull on a jumper, I can’t help but think about what will happen when she awakes. I can’t get this thought from my head all the way to the Sainsbury’s down the street, nor can I push it away as I gather the supplies for a great birthday breakfast. Bacon, eggs, toast, potatoes, beans, sausage, I want to go all out. I guess you could also say that this might be goodbye. Because after she says the words I don’t want to hear, she’ll never be able to look me in the eyes again. So I have to make this count. On a whim, I make sure to tuck another bottle of champagne into my basket as well as a bag of oranges.
When I’m walking up the street, arms full of groceries, a pastry shop catches my eye and I go in. The girl behind the counter looks up at me from her copy of Cosmopolitan, slowly, only to have her eye lids descend, disinterested in me from the start. I almost feel offended. But she’s maybe seventeen, what do I care of her disinterest. I turn my attention from her to the sweets in the case. A cupcake stands out. In a silver wrapper, chocolate with turquoise icing and an emerald green flower. I am sure there is a candle somewhere in my flat.
“I’d like that cupcake,” I say, my finger pointing to it. Disinterested girl puts down her magazine, a look on her face as if she’d eaten a bit of mildewy bread. She takes the indicated cupcake and carefully places it into a perfectly sized box before tying it closed with a lopsided bow. I push the coins for it into her hand and shifting my bags to one side, I hold the box in the other, like one would a precious thing, not a cupcake.
When I get home, I unpack the cupcake first. I set it on my prettiest plate, the only piece left of my great grandmother’s wedding china, pink roses painted carefully on the white porcelain. I find a candle, gold in color, hiding in the very back of my spice cupboard, though why it was there, I don’t know, and stick it in behind the flower, careful not to ruin the frosting. Then, I set to breakfast.
I juice the oranges into a clear pitcher first and put it into the refrigerator. The champagne is shoved into the ice collector in the freezer, to chill faster. I have bacon and sausage on the range and eggs ready when I turn around to grab the salt from the center island and she’s sitting at the bar, in my dressing gown, smiling at me. My spatula hits the ground, and I can hear her laugh as I scramble to retrieve it.
“Good morning,” she says when I’m standing again.
“Good morning,” I reply, and I’m steeling myself for it. For “I had too much to drink last night. I’m really sorry, but I’m straight. Last night was a mistake” But it doesn’t come.
“That smells great,” she says instead and my heart pounds uncomfortable fast, “you’re so sweet to be making breakfast.”
“Well, it’s your birthday, isn’t it?” I say and I find myself smiling. I laugh, tossing the spatula into the sink and groping blinding into a drawer for another. Pushing the sausages around in the pan and flipping the bacon, I turn to her and produce the lighter I’d found whilst searching for the candle. Her lips turn up into a smile as I light the wick.
“Happy Birthday, make a wish,” I say, grinning. She’s had plenty of time break it off, to tell me that it was a mistake, the make her excuses, and she hasn’t. She is excited about breakfast. The tightness I’ve had inside all morning loosens as she scrunches her nose, her eyes closed and concentrating before blowing out her candle. I watch her start to unpeel the cupcake from its wrapped before I turn back to cooking. The smile on her face makes me unmeasurably happy, which catches me off guard. It’s been a while since I’ve made someone smile like that.
She kisses me when I place a plate piled high with bad-for-you breakfast foods in front of her. I can taste chocolate and the sickly sweetness of vanilla buttercream frosting on her tongue. When she pulls away, she whispers, “Sophie,” in an out of breath desperation, and I never want any other mouth to say my name. I pour mimosas and sit across the bar from her. She takes my left hand in hers and doesn’t let go until the food is gone and the glasses are drained. Then, we spend the rest of her birthday in my bed.
When it’s dark and my eyes are mostly closed, she says, her voice a whisper, “This has been the best birthday I’ve ever had.” I open my eyes, and turn to look at her, her skin luminous in the glow of the television. I move my hand to rub my thumb across her heart. Across the duck that lives there. She looks at my thumb and says something, but I only catch the word wish, and I know for what she’s wished. I shift, pressing my lips against the black lines. In that moment, I know that I will, somehow, get her the duckling she so desires.
“My physician will tell you six.” I strain to hear her voice, barely a whisper, in the bustling pub.
“But what will you tell me?” I push. The answer comes out in a sort of wail, distorting her ruby lips, scrunching up her eyes, wrinkling her nose. Before me sits a woman so determined, so desperate to be a mother that she didn’t dare tell even her physician of five failed pregnancies. Maybe she was told to stop trying. Maybe that her life was in danger. But it didn’t matter. Having a baby was more important than even her life. That little glimmer of desperation breaking through the calm, successful, put-together façade grips me, and I want - need - to find out what else is under that mask.
The pub starts to clear and just as I am about to order another round, the clang of the town clock comes in through the open door. She looks up at me.
“What time is it, then?” she asks, raking her fingers through her long, ginger hair.
I pull out my phone and reply, “Midnight.”
“It’s my 28th birthday,” she giggles, “this calls for champagne!”
“I have a bottle at my flat,” I answer not even a beat later. She graces me with an upward curve of those perfect lips and drags me from the pub.
Hours later, after a few slurred toasts, and a hundred feverish kisses, I watch her sleep, sprawled on one side of my too big for just me bed. Her cheek rests against the pristine white sheet, inches below the offered, but unused pillow, and surrounded by a halo of curls. One arm dangles off the bed, while the other is curled up underneath her. I drag the duvet halfway up her back and go to the kitchen, pulling on a dressing gown as I go.
Over a cup of tea, I wonder if she’ll wake in the morning and tell me she’s straight. It’s happened before. Alcohol removes inhibitions and for many, brings out that hidden bit of bi-curiosity. Straight girls are the bane of my existence. I try to glean as much about sexuality as I can before I go to bed with anyone, but I’ve spent months with this one and she’s a mystery. I know she was married to a man at sixteen and divorced at twenty-five, but as for her interest in women? Nothing.
In the middle of my second cup of tea, I think that maybe it’s better off this way. The internet will warn you against falling in love with a writer as we are unpredictable. And because this isn’t just a profession. We can’t turn it off at the end of the day. Because you’ll show up in our words. The way you hold a fork will be how that man in the Italian restaurant eats his cannelloni. The way you wrap your hair around your finger will show up in the girl that sits in the back of the chemistry classroom. You will be immortalized in our words whether you like it or not. And that can be frustrating. So maybe it is best that when she wakes in the morning, she will tell me she is straight, because I don’t want to damn her to the life of loving a writer. Still, as I crawl back under the duvet and close my eyes, I can’t help but hope otherwise.
I’m awake first. I’m always awake first. I don’t know if it’s because I rise with the sun on most mornings, or the fact that I’m not used to another body in my bed, but my eyes are open before the clock hits seven, and out of bed, into the shower not ten minutes after. She is asleep still, just as she was the night before, arm off the bed, pillow still unused, curls everywhere. There’s no movement, even when I drop a shoe against the wooden base of my wardrobe while dressing. It’s her birthday, the first part of it that she’ll spend sober, anyway, and I want it to be memorable. Or at least good in any sense.
As I pull on a jumper, I can’t help but think about what will happen when she awakes. I can’t get this thought from my head all the way to the Sainsbury’s down the street, nor can I push it away as I gather the supplies for a great birthday breakfast. Bacon, eggs, toast, potatoes, beans, sausage, I want to go all out. I guess you could also say that this might be goodbye. Because after she says the words I don’t want to hear, she’ll never be able to look me in the eyes again. So I have to make this count. On a whim, I make sure to tuck another bottle of champagne into my basket as well as a bag of oranges.
When I’m walking up the street, arms full of groceries, a pastry shop catches my eye and I go in. The girl behind the counter looks up at me from her copy of Cosmopolitan, slowly, only to have her eye lids descend, disinterested in me from the start. I almost feel offended. But she’s maybe seventeen, what do I care of her disinterest. I turn my attention from her to the sweets in the case. A cupcake stands out. In a silver wrapper, chocolate with turquoise icing and an emerald green flower. I am sure there is a candle somewhere in my flat.
“I’d like that cupcake,” I say, my finger pointing to it. Disinterested girl puts down her magazine, a look on her face as if she’d eaten a bit of mildewy bread. She takes the indicated cupcake and carefully places it into a perfectly sized box before tying it closed with a lopsided bow. I push the coins for it into her hand and shifting my bags to one side, I hold the box in the other, like one would a precious thing, not a cupcake.
When I get home, I unpack the cupcake first. I set it on my prettiest plate, the only piece left of my great grandmother’s wedding china, pink roses painted carefully on the white porcelain. I find a candle, gold in color, hiding in the very back of my spice cupboard, though why it was there, I don’t know, and stick it in behind the flower, careful not to ruin the frosting. Then, I set to breakfast.
I juice the oranges into a clear pitcher first and put it into the refrigerator. The champagne is shoved into the ice collector in the freezer, to chill faster. I have bacon and sausage on the range and eggs ready when I turn around to grab the salt from the center island and she’s sitting at the bar, in my dressing gown, smiling at me. My spatula hits the ground, and I can hear her laugh as I scramble to retrieve it.
“Good morning,” she says when I’m standing again.
“Good morning,” I reply, and I’m steeling myself for it. For “I had too much to drink last night. I’m really sorry, but I’m straight. Last night was a mistake” But it doesn’t come.
“That smells great,” she says instead and my heart pounds uncomfortable fast, “you’re so sweet to be making breakfast.”
“Well, it’s your birthday, isn’t it?” I say and I find myself smiling. I laugh, tossing the spatula into the sink and groping blinding into a drawer for another. Pushing the sausages around in the pan and flipping the bacon, I turn to her and produce the lighter I’d found whilst searching for the candle. Her lips turn up into a smile as I light the wick.
“Happy Birthday, make a wish,” I say, grinning. She’s had plenty of time break it off, to tell me that it was a mistake, the make her excuses, and she hasn’t. She is excited about breakfast. The tightness I’ve had inside all morning loosens as she scrunches her nose, her eyes closed and concentrating before blowing out her candle. I watch her start to unpeel the cupcake from its wrapped before I turn back to cooking. The smile on her face makes me unmeasurably happy, which catches me off guard. It’s been a while since I’ve made someone smile like that.
She kisses me when I place a plate piled high with bad-for-you breakfast foods in front of her. I can taste chocolate and the sickly sweetness of vanilla buttercream frosting on her tongue. When she pulls away, she whispers, “Sophie,” in an out of breath desperation, and I never want any other mouth to say my name. I pour mimosas and sit across the bar from her. She takes my left hand in hers and doesn’t let go until the food is gone and the glasses are drained. Then, we spend the rest of her birthday in my bed.
When it’s dark and my eyes are mostly closed, she says, her voice a whisper, “This has been the best birthday I’ve ever had.” I open my eyes, and turn to look at her, her skin luminous in the glow of the television. I move my hand to rub my thumb across her heart. Across the duck that lives there. She looks at my thumb and says something, but I only catch the word wish, and I know for what she’s wished. I shift, pressing my lips against the black lines. In that moment, I know that I will, somehow, get her the duckling she so desires.