e i g h t e e n
We’re listening to the humming of the trains, counting them as they pass. It’s late. I don’t know how late, but it’s late. Traffic has thinned, people have traded in suits for short dresses and semiformals, the doors of pubs and nightclubs have closed, lights have switched off high up in apartment buildings. The guy at the takeaway Costa stall was texting his girlfriend, smiling at his phone screen (tits or ass?) and he forgot to put the little peppermint swigs at the bottom of my coffee. Everyone wants to get home at this time. Not me. Not us.
In the back of my mind I know that I have not taken my meds after what happened this morning. I know because it’s colder than it should be, because sounds rush past me faster than their sources, because there’s an itch on the inside of my wrist and it won’t go away. I hold on to Dexter and I fight it off. I fight it off.
We’re sitting on the granite ledge of the fountain installation near the entrance of the metro station. The fountain’s been switched off, the gargoyles just gaping at the pedestrians stupidly, not that they looked much more interesting spewing water. Above our heads, we can hear trains humming across the tracks every ten minutes. I wonder when the last train is but I don’t want to ask because that would mean going back to Aunt Evelyn. So I just sit, feeling the hairs on Dexter’s knuckles as he holds my hand. We didn’t wash our hands after scarfing down the hotdogs and the coffees and things so it’s a bit gross but I don’t mind. I’ve done grosser things.
We’ve spent the night walking and eating and absorbing the lights of the city. We walked here from Calisto. I remember we passed this little house somewhere near the Hard Rock Café. It was one of those old restored colonial houses. It had this little square lawn and a mosaic-floored verandah with a wooden swing and a sleeping Daschund. They had pretty lace curtains and bay windows and a creeper on the walls. I could see people inside. It was a nice house, a nice thing to look at. I just happened to spot it when we were walking. I liked it but it sort of made me sad, I don’t know why. It was the kind of house you’d want to see who lived in, but you’d still be a bit scared of what you might find. Anyway, we didn’t go in. We just kept walking, crossing streets and taking detours through train stations. Now we’re here, watching traffic streak past in golden lines, time pass us in station clocks and the nip of the cold night, licking mayonnaise of the sides of our mouths.
He’s pretty quiet. So am I. It’s a situation I would normally be pretty fucking uncomfortable in, but it’s alright. It’s actually nice.
“There’s a traffic light right across where we’re sitting,” I tell Dexter.
“Mmhm.”
“I feel like I don’t want to throw myself in front of the cars at the green light tonight. I do sometimes. Usually. But tonight I don’t want to.”
He doesn’t say anything for a while. He doesn’t even hold my hand tighter or anything. I wonder if he cares, then I wonder if I do.
“Me either.”
I don’t know.
We just keep sitting there. A group of girls passes us, stilettos clacking on the pavement, waving down a taxi some steps away. I feel nauseous, but then Dexter speaks.
“I used to spend my whole nights out here,” Dexter says. “Just wandering. I took trains. Sat around on pavements, watched people go by. When dawn came I used to go home, because I liked it better at night.”
I ask him the dumbest question possible.
“Did you go to college?”
I look at his face, and see him wrinkling his nose. It’s not something you’d expect Dexter to do, it’s so childlike and out-of-place, but he’s doing it anyway.
