clocks

20

George

"You really don't have to come with me, not if you don't want to," he reasons, twisting my tie neatly around my neck. "I don't want you to feel like you have to do this, it's not that important, it's not important at all."

He smells of aftershave, his stubble freshly cut. My hands drift to it absentmindedly, feeling the lack of bump across his chin. We seem too close, all of a sudden. Air seems to have been pulled from the lack of space between us.

"I've told you already, I want to go," I tell him, wondering if his tongue tastes as minty as his aftershave smells. "I want to meet your friends, it'll be fun," I mumble, hoping he can hear what I really mean. I want you to show me off.

He finishes pulling my tie to make it fit comfortably around my neck, but doesn't make any effort to move away, to wreck the closeness between us. I'm sat on the edge of the bed, so I reach my hands out to straighten his suits jacket, pulling it gently.

His suit is black, the shirt underneath is a crisp white. The tie is practically a replica of my own, it's tied in the same knot mine is, too. I watched him twist and turn it in the mirror, while flicking at what must of been a piece of food in his teeth with his tongue.

"Ready?" he asks, as my hands return to my lap, away from his jacket.

There's a work dinner that's been put together at Yale tonight, he mentioned it a few weeks ago when we first got here but nothing else was said until he reminded me of it last night whilst we were immersed in some film. He asked if I was coming, I said only if he wanted me there.

He warned me all his colleagues would be there, their spouses, no children, a dress code, a free bar, he told me it all. I then asked again if he wanted me there. He said yes, of course he did. I told him I didn't have a suit with me, so he went out and got me tailored, then picked it up this morning.

"Ready," I smile, standing and brushing myself down, not quite meeting his eye. My nerves won't settle and I'm almost sure something will go wrong, something has to go wrong—

Warmth, in my palm, his fingers slotting through mine, the even feeling of the bubbling in my stomach beginning to cease. It sizzles and pops until it is no more, a spark, put out.

***

Dinner feels long, or maybe it's just my long lived anxiety that have always surrounded such proclaimed events as dinners that makes it feel so long. There's more people then I had been expecting, so many more people.

Walking in was the most nerve wrecking thing I think I've done in a long time. The looks, and then double takes when they realized that he wasn't alone. Then, the sudden flush of people that decided to come and say their hello's to him, making sure to introduce themselves to me, asking for my name, who I am.

Who am I? My name seems to slip from my mind, my hands feel like they are shaking even though I can see them as clear as the night sky outside, and they are fine, they grasp the hands of the other people flashing me smiles and warm welcomes.

The hall the event is held in is warmly lit, dim orange lights and candles posed on shining golden holds. Long floor to ceiling windows, decked with grand red curtains, the wooden floors polished to perfection. The atmosphere helps me to settle, once we've sat down, once we've eaten.

Then, after food and polite conversation, the real talk. Drink orders are taken by the handsome men in the ironed waiters clothing, mumbles of whiskey, some cocktails, port.

I rock back and forth very slowly as I tell the man I'll take a simple glass of wine. He smiles and moves on. Dream says he will take whatever I'm having, immersed into the conversation he is having with the man across the table.