I Unlove You (6 page)

I
laugh as I grab our empty glasses.
“
Drink?
”

“
Hold on,
”
he says.
“
I
’
m serious
about the job. You
’
re the most chilled
and content person I know, and I love you for it, but I see it in
your eyes. That spark isn
’
t there anymore, and
so long as you submit to the daily grind of corporate bullshit,
it
’
ll never return.
”

“
Thanks for the motivational
talk.
“

“
You know what I
mean.
”
He points his pipe at me.
“
You know. You know
that I know. When was the last time you wrote something? Or
painted? Or drew for the love of it?
”

“
It doesn
’
t matter.
You said so yourself, we
’
re young. This is my
first job, and all I care about is saving up enough money so I can
move in with
B
. We have a plan, and I know you
don
’
t understand it, but it
’
s the only one that
makes sense to us.
”

Forcing the old, chewed up pipe between his teeth, he
sighs.
“
Be careful, that
’
s all
I
’
m saying. That world you enter every day is the exact
existence we
’
ve fought all these
years. You
’
re the best person I
know, and the most talented by far. You
’
re wasted doing
whatever it is you do each day, and I
’
m sure
B
would
agree.
”

I smile.
“
Same
again?
”

“
Fine. Avoid the issue, but mark
my words, you
’
ll regret it. You
and
B
both will.
”

“
When I get back,
let
’
s talk about that gig. Okay?
”

Mumbling to himself, he digs his
phone out of his pocket and lights up its screen.

I
walk to the bar and lean on its smooth wooden top as Harriet rushes
from one side of it to the other. I catch myself in the long mirror
half-hidden behind bottles of whisky and rum and more,
Joey
’
s slouched form hovering just beyond me.
“
How have we lasted all
these years?
”
I say under my breath.

“
You say something,
Aus?
”
asks
Harriet.

“
No, sorry. Just wondering what
a Joey-less life would look like.
”

She
laughs, sliding her brown fringe to one side.
“
You should try it
sometime. It
’
s rather
good.
”
Reaching for the empty glasses, she places them in the sink
behind her and wipes the bar-top clean.

Her
small guitar tattoo lies half-hidden under her black vest, one of a
few tattoos she owns, but the only one the majority get to see. For
years she
’
s teased Joey about the others, leaving him
yearning to know what they look like and where they are on her
body.

I
’
ve known her since primary school, but she still
makes me feel small and child-like. I figured
she
’
d give in to Joey
’
s advances at some
point, and she nearly did when we were fifteen, but she never
kissed him; refused to remain in a room alone with
him.

He
tells me everything, especially the intimate moments in his life I
don
’
t wish to know, but when it comes to Harriet he holds
back, just like he does about his mother.

“
You after another
round?
”
she asks.

“
Yeah, same again,
please.
”

“
I have to say,
Aus,
”
she continues, placing a glass under the pump
that
’
s taller than her.
“
I struggle to figure
out how the two of you have lasted so long. When it comes to that
boy
…
well, people don
’
t tend to stick
around.
”

“
He
’
s not so bad. He
keeps things interesting.
”

“
Is that what
we
’
re calling it?
”

I
pick up a beer mat and scratch the sides.
“
You know, I could say
the same about you. I
’
m surprised you
never gave in to him.
”

She
laughs, tilting the glass before straightening it again.
“
Never
going to happen. He
’
s a little boy,
Aussie.
”

“
He isn
’
t so bad. You
know that deep down.
”

Placing one full glass on the bar, she lifts another to the
pump.
“
I do. The trouble is, he doesn
’
t. I
’
m sure one day
he
’
ll grow up, but let
’
s face it,
we
’
ll all be long gone by the time he
does.
”

“
Come on, you make him
sound
—“

“
He
’
s hurt too many of
my friends. Come talk to me when you
’
ve comforted him all
night after someone broke his heart.
”

“
I
’
m afraid I already I
have,
”
I
sigh.

She
tilts the glass again, levelling it off and perfecting yet another
pint.
“
Yeah. I guess you have.
”
She exhales deep and places both
palms on the bar.
“
We all have a past, Aus. It
doesn
’
t permit us to hurt who we wish.
You
’
re a good guy, and he
’
s lucky to have a
friend like you, but
…”
She trails off.

“
I know what
you
’
re saying. I do.
”

She
smiles.
“
Keep him out of trouble in the meantime.
”

“
Thanks for the
drinks,
”
I say, placing some change on the bar.

“
Have a good night,
Aus.
”

“
You too, Harriet. You
too.
”

MAY 7
^TH
- THE RUSH HOUR TRAIN:

Growing up, I brimmed with
excitement at the mere idea of trains. I pleaded with my mother and
father to take me everywhere on them, and although a bus and car,
and even a plane, were exciting in their own right, nothing came
close to the rumble and tumble of an old rickety
locomotive.

Somewhere along the line of life, this excitement dwindled.
Where I once crept close to the edge of the platform so the
‘
whoosh
’
of air smacked me in my face, I now
groan as the trail of out-of-date carriages approach. Maybe some of
the passion would return if it wasn
’
t for one rush hour
journey after another.

In
the morning I
’
m surrounded by
tired folk with a full day ahead of them; in the evening,
shoulder-to-shoulder with life-sapped humans already dreading
tomorrow
’
s repetition. But right now I should feel
somewhat blessed, as I managed to struggle my way through the
hustle and bustle of bags and arms into a spongy seat far older
than me.

In theory, an hour-long commute
like this should be fantastic, as it guarantees me two hours each
day to plug in music and lose myself within a book. My parents
never owned a TV, so I read more books by the age of twelve than I
imagine most do in a lifetime. Music and reading and general
daydreaming is all I knew as an early teen, but tests, studies and
university temptations stole both time and fiction. For now I have
Alan Moore to keep me company once again, and the sounds of The
Pixies and the songs I grew up with.

But
it
’
s hard to lose myself when so many people surround me,
all these breaths, smells and sighs crammed into a carriage. I
drift towards peace for a few seconds, but soon realise my arm
touches a strange man, and that a women sleeps mere feet away,
drool dripping from her mouth. In theory, it
’
s great,
but in reality, it
’
s a daily reminder
about how uncomfortable and anxious other people make
me.

“
Is that a comic
book?
”
asks the pair of legs hovering inches from my
head.

I
look up to put a face to the voice, its harsh tone louder than
Black Francis.
“
Excuse me?
”
I say, removing my black
earphones.

“
That. What
you
’
re reading. Is it a comic book?
”
asks the middle-aged
man in a plain grey suit.

“
Kind of. It
’
s a
graphic novel,
”
I reply, fidgeting in my seat.

“
Don
’
t you think
you
’
re a little old to read comic
books?
”

I
swallow a breath and look at my shoes, unsure how to
respond.
“
Well, it
’
s a graphic novel,
so
…”

“
What
’
s the
difference?
”

“
I
…
well
…”
I stutter, folding the corner of the page into a
triangle.
“
It
’
s longer, and more mature,
and
…
a novel, I guess.
”

“
It looks like a comic book to
me, son,
”
he says, goosebumps forming over my skin as his flat tone
reminds me of terrifying teachers from my past.

I scratch my fingers and flick my
thumbs, looking to the window in the hope Sowerby Bridge is near.
No such luck.

“
Do you have a
job?
”
he asks.

I nod, still unsure of
myself.

“
Which is?
”

“
I
’
m. A. Graphic.
Designer,
”
I say, looking at my shoes again.

“
I see. We have a few graphic
designers, too.
”

I
glance to the window, anxiety twisting up from my stomach.
“
Okay.
”

“
So,
”
he says, leaning on my head
rest.
“
Is it any good? Maybe my son would like
it.
”

“
Very good,
yes,
”
I whisper.