The Quiet Man

Nice

“I’ll get the tickets,” she says. That’s sweet. But I was just paid, and I’m feeling generous. Also: I’m the one who asked her to come out with me. She doesn’t know me from Adam; I’m just the bloke who helped her pick up her dry cleaning when she dropped it in the road. Some random good Samaritan. Some random bloke who needs a good distraction, that’s what I am. But she said yes. I can be charming too, if I try. I can do this.

I haven’t been out with anyone in ages. Literally ages. Since long before you died. Girlfriends didn’t seem compatible with my life with you. I just ended up getting yelled at and dumped. I abandoned women for you, over and over. So I gave up. Life with you was more fun than having a girlfriend anyway. That should have been a red flag, now that I think of it. I preferred to be with you, in the end. That was, strangely, enough.

“Does your one snore?” You didn’t hear that; you were off already on the hunt for the hound. You don’t snore, but I didn’t tell him that. The fact that I know you don’t is damning enough. I know you too well, I spend too much time with you, we’re too close; we’re so close that I think I might have fallen in love with you a little bit without noticing. I didn’t know that could happen. I didn’t guard for that. It just sneaked in.

She’s never read my blog. She’s never heard of The Strand. She doesn’t know about you at all. She’s not that interested in the news and she doesn’t read the paper. It’s a strange existence. An appealing one, really. No preconceived ideas, no awkward questions. She won’t ask me how I’m managing, and she won’t mention the way your suicide played out in the press. She doesn’t own a telly. I told her I’m a writer, because that’s what I am now. I’m not your colleague anymore. Dead men don’t need colleagues. Or friends. Or whatever else we might have been. I’m a writer, and she respects that. She has books; she likes books.

“You get them next time,” I tell her. I smile. “Since I asked, I’ll get them this time round. Let me.” I can be charming. I’m a good date. I’m a good boyfriend, you’ll see. This is who I am, this is what I do. It’s normal. I could end up in her bed tonight, I could make her breakfast in the morning. We might be together forever. It would help me remember what it’s like to be normal. That would be nice.

She smiles at me, then looks down at my feet for a moment. Demure, is that what that is? She’s a little shy. It’s sweet. You would never do that. You’re not shy about anything.

Her name is Amber. You’d never remember that; I don’t know why you remember the most arcane details about cigarette ash and what certain kinds of pants signify but you can’t ever keep track of the name of my current girlfriend. Though, to be fair, she’s not my girlfriend yet. It’s just one date. The first date. It’s a little awkward, but I should do this. Don’t you think? That’s what I do, I find lovely women to go out with. I sleep with them, I write them bad poetry. I make them laugh. I’m good at it. It’s progress. Ella would write that down: went on a date. Progress. Moving on. Yes. That’s what I’m doing.

I’m a man, a straight man. I go out with women, I love women. I love the way they feel, the way they smell. I love to kiss them. I love to slide inside them, bury my face in their breasts, I love to kiss their hot skin and feel their fingers digging into my back, gripping my hair. Women are lovely. But at the moment all I can think about is you.

What if I had tried to kiss you, what would you have said? Now it’s all I can think about: what you might have felt like under my hands. The hard muscles in your chest, your bony hips and sharp knees, your long, thin fingers: There’d be no softness to you, nothing forgiving. There’s a brutality to you. You’d be the construction equipment in my bed; something to contend with. Something to address head on. You’d use your teeth, I bet. I’d laugh; you’d laugh, too. You’d bring your intensity of purpose, your curiosity, and that awkwardness you have when you think I’m not looking. Maybe you’d let your guard down, maybe I’m wrong. There is a gentleness to you too, there is. I’ve seen it. I don’t know.