A Likely Story

5. falling action

 The chocolate was finished, the glass empty, and I felt like I could talk properly again without having to worry about throwing up in between words. All in a good night's work; although I was still in that never-drinking-again mindset, mostly due to the fact that I was now self-aware enough to realise that what had happened just now had been pretty fucking embarrassing for me.

I stuffed the chocolate wrapper in my pocket and traipsed downstairs holding the glass. Charlie was sitting on the counter, avidly reading what I assumed to be the book he had brought down with him. His hair had fallen in front of his eyes a little, and I wondered briefly and bizarrely what kind of ridiculously good shampoo could make someone's hair look that soft. He looked up as I approached, and closed the book, placing his thumb on the page that he had been reading so that he wouldn't lose it. The painfully familiar movement forced me to avert my eyes, as if I'd just witnessed something bordering on indecent.

I coughed. “Thanks,” I said, with the new-found awkwardness I always developed when I realised that someone was actually okay.

I lifted the glass. “Where should I...?” I trailed off as he hopped down from the desk.

“I'll take it,” he said, and his fingers wrapped around mine for second, before they took the glass from my hand. He leant over the counter without bothering to go around, and placed the glass on the inner table of the front desk. An silence ensued that I felt the compulsive need to fill.

“So... how did you manage to get hold of the perfect hangover cure?”

I watched as his shoulders stiffened, and for a second I thought he wasn't going to answer. “I knew someone who was very familiar with them,” he said shortly.

“Oh,” I replied, the word staccato with surprise. I hadn't even begun to think about his friends, or the fact that he had any. I didn't actually know why I was so surprised; people who looked like he did usually had other people swarming around them like flies. I also wasn't sure why I was disappointed.

His shirt had lifted up a bit, revealing a smooth patch of back, and I found myself reading the word on the back of his shirt absentmindedly; Angles.

“What does that mean?” I asked, and he straightened up, giving me a strange look, his brow furrowed in confusion. “Your shirt,” I elaborated.

“Oh,” he said, and for the first time since I'd met him, I saw his mouth curve up into a genuine smile. “It's an album by the Strokes. They're a band.” I felt a sinking sensation in my chest.

“I thought they only had one band t-shirt, not ones with their album titles on them,” I said without thinking.

“What?” he asked. Then he seemed to register what I'd said. “How did you know that?” he asked in surprise.

I smiled wanly, trying to get away from the subject that I'd unknowingly brought up, although I should have known. “I'm not as stupid as you think.”

“I don't think you're stupid,” he said, and then continued hurriedly, his cheeks going faintly redder, “and anyway, it's not a matter of stupidity, whether you know the Strokes or not.” He glanced down at his shoes, which I noticed were the same ancient white trainers as yesterday. Did he not have any others? “My dad made for me.” I nodded politely, not really listening. I wanted to stop talking about it.

Then, as if he couldn't help himself, he looked up and asked quickly, “What's your favourite song by them?”

I reached for the edge of my sleeve with the tips of my fingers, pulling it down over my hand. I looked up and saw him watching. “I hate the Strokes,” I said firmly, staring at wall behind his head, which was completely covered with huge posters with pictures of what I assumed were famous authors. He smiled a second time.