Queer The City: Dale Street, L2
[TEXT MESSAGE TONE]
It is too early for anyone to be texting me. 10.30 on a Saturday is too early when - somehow - even sunshine smells like her.
Nix wants me to come to brunch. They promise me a club sandwich the size of my head and more coffee that I can drink. They do not say they are worried. They send me a selfie from their car, flame haired and gap toothed. I consider saying no, and spending another day alone watching The US Office and ordering in.
Instead I leave, and on the train into town I stare at my reflection in the window. I tell myself I am not broken, that the hook Toni slipped under my ribs with the wicked curl of her tongue had not torn out something vital when she left for the airport. I am lying.
Moorfields is busy, forcing me to dodge and weave around the weekend crowd from the moment I disembark. I try as much as possible to not touch anyone; my suit may be a fine wool second skin, but it is too thin to keep out the bright and the rough and the screech of a city at leisure. I am still too raw to be touched. I am still aching for her to touch me.
When I see Nix walking past Thomas Rigby’s I run up and call out their name. Their face breaks into a grin and they touch me, a soft hand on my arm that pulls me into a hug too sudden for me to reject. Their stubble against my forehead should be too much, their hands splayed across my back too close but we have known each other long enough that the locked door of their embrace is not a cage. I have the key. We crafted it together.
They ask me how I am as we walk towards Moose Coffee. I lie. They don’t call me on it, instead updating me on Lo’s new cat and Manny’s new houseplants. We wait outside the door for a table to free up. I ask them how they are. They tell the truth. I don’t ask them not to. They are happy and I should not resent it. We are ushered in by a small man in a branded t-shirt. We get a booth. I stare up at the moose astronaut on the wall. The smile that unfurls somewhere deep in my chest is a shadow that doesn’t make it anywhere near my face. It shouldn’t surprise me that I cannot smile properly without her. We order coffee and sandwiches. Nix looks at me. They are waiting for me to be honest. I don't think I know how.
I say I am not broken.
They agree.
I say Toni was never vital.
They agree.
I say that I am over her and wish people would stop acting like I'm made of glass.
They tell me not to lie.
They thank the server who returns with our coffee. They tell me I am still hurting and fragile and that’s OK. Nix takes hold of my hand and tells me that I am a castle built on sand because Toni convinced me it was bedrock. They stare at me such that I cannot look away and tell me that Toni convinced me that I didn't need ribs or freshwater so it's no wonder I am left bleeding salt.
I don’t beg them to stop, but they must see my eyes, wide and red and pleading. They must feel my hands shake and the hummingbird thrum of my pulse. They must know that I am still bleeding and the salt is keeping me alive and they cannot expect me to just start breathing again.
I stop listening. I call out to gods whose names I do not know and beg for my bed, a bed, anywhere soft and dark and quiet. Anywhere I can escape this person who knows me too well and tells me things that are too true and the server puts our dishes on the table. Nix lets go of my hand. They say they are sorry, they promise not to bring it up again. They say I will be ok. I know they must be lying.
They eat their sandwich and I pick at mine and we talk about travel. They’ve booked flights to Berlin and I am considering America. They look at me. I reassure them it’s not going to be Chicago. I don't reassure them that I don't want Toni back; I have lied too much already. We fall into silence. I eat my sandwich. It's cold.
Nix pays and I tip and we exit into the cool autumn sunshine. We cross the road and I turn to walk back towards Moorfields. They stop me, suggest a walk down to the docks instead. I lean against the white-turned beige stone of the Town Hall and look down toward Water Street. I can see the water. I cannot go near the water. I know I am being dramatic but I say ‘I cannot go near the water’ and Nix nods. I don’t think they understand that Toni loved the wind and the tourist traps so enjoying it without her would be a kind of betrayal. I’m sure if they did, they’d tell me I am being dramatic. We don’t hug goodbye; my skins - both of them - are too thin and too raw.
It is Sunday morning and today I think it is my hunger that drove her away, that the way I wanted to swallow her and nestle her beneath my diaphragm disgusted her. A whatsapp notification goes off, and then another, and then another. I mute it. Maybe she found my appetites shallow and tepid, that I wanted the wrong things from her. Perhaps if I learned more about the Impressionists, or sat stiller for her paintings, or understood her brother better, perhaps if I wanted her anger as much as her wit and her stubbornness as much as her loyalty. Perhaps - Perhaps - Perhaps - I go back to bed and cry myself into a fitful sleep.
It is evening before I check whatsapp. Nix has posted some She-Ra memes into our groupchat, Lo a succession of cat pictures, Manny a compilation of otter TikToks. Somewhere deep in my chest, a shadow of a smile unfurls. It doesn’t quite make it to my face, but I don’t mind. I respond with a gif. We all text late into the night.
[ALARM TONE]
It is Monday, and on the train into town and I tell myself I am not broken, that the hook Toni slipped under my ribs with the wicked curl of her tongue had not torn out something vital when she left for the airport. Somehow, today, I am not lying.
Moorfields is busy, but I am content to be bumped and jostled on my way out of the station.
At work, I am more productive than I have been in weeks. Even so, my manager glares at me, watery eyed and thin lipped. He thinks I am stupid, or lazy, or some other thing he’s projected onto the dark wide screen of my body and I have never cared to correct him. He decided a long time ago, and I am not about to fold and stretch and crumple myself to slip behind the frayed tapestry of his expectations. I have already torn and tied and remoulded myself for someone who did not love me and at least she made me pancakes on Sunday mornings. This man offers me nothing.
Around mid-morning I fill my water bottle and take an apple. The water is crisp and sweet. The apple is crisp and sweet.
I suppose that is one thing he and Toni have in common. She no longer offers me anything.
After work, I walk past the Tesco and the Blood Donation Centre, past Moose and the Town Hall. I walk down Water Street.
I can feel the wind, brisk and cold. I take a breath, my lungs and ribs swelling to their fullest capacity. I can see the river, glittering in a sunshine that - of course - doesn’t smell of anything.