‘Okay, so, one afternoon, a man walked into the North Haven. He sat on a stool. Not the stool you always pick. The one on the far left. You know the one, right? Can you visualise which stool I’m talking about?’
‘The one… near the snack basket?’
‘Exactly. He sat there, on that stool. And he was the spitting image of the man in the painting. You know what I’m talking about? The painting in the pub?’
Charles opens his eyes. ‘The horseman?’
‘Yeah, the horseman. That customer had the same moustache, the same monocle and the same kind of stag-hunting outfit. Can you picture such a man showing up at the pub? And my face? Can you imagine my face, as my head was turning back and forth from him to the painting?’
Loris’ head is still, his eyes looking deep into Charles’ eyes.
‘He ordered an old-fashioned. I said, “Sorry, we’re out of oranges.” He replied, “It’s okay” and he pulled an orange out of his pocket. So I asked, “Do you always have an orange in your pocket?” and he went like, “Yes. Don’t you?” He was super confused that I didn’t carry an orange at all times. He was so confused that, when I turned around to prepare his drink, I started reassessing my life. You know… Listing moments when having an orange could have made a difference. I was mixing whisky and sugar with a bar spoon, slowly, clockwise, and I realised how useful an orange can be.’
Loris is massaging Charles’ skin, slowly, clockwise, dissolving the tightness in his neck.
‘I cut a piece of peel and I added it to his glass. He paid, stood up and left without drinking it. Strange bird, right?’
‘And then?’
‘That’s it. I ate the orange and went about my business.’
‘This is… not a great story.’ Charles is clicking his pen on his own, following the steady beat of his heart. ‘It’s lame. You just made it up.’
‘Did I?’
‘The pub doesn’t do cocktails. You’re a weirdo.’
‘Am I?’
There’s doughnut sugar in Loris’ stubble, where his cheek would break into a dimple if he smiled brighter. Not enough to spread into heart-shaped glasses, but Charles collects the powder with his forefinger and traces an imaginary outline around Loris’ left eye.
‘What are you doing?’
Charles circles his right eye. He’s light-headed, floating in a bubble where time is distorted. Where he could always count on Loris. Where he had already heard his lame orange story and spread invisible sugar on his face.
He must have done it before, otherwise it wouldn’t feel so intuitive.
‘Thank you for this pointless tale.’
‘You’re welcome, I’ve got plenty.’
Charles traces a monocle chain down to Loris’ chin.
No, it’s the first time he’s doing so. He had never noticed the three beauty spots aligned between Loris’ nose and the corner of his mouth. He had never realised how plump his lips are.
‘You okay? Charles?’
Especially the bottom one. Plump, moist and surely sweet, like the flesh of a cherry. The colour isn’t cherry, though. It’s a fairer shade. Loris would name it and come up with an artistic soliloquy about it.
‘Yes…’
Grenadine. That’s what Loris’ lip reminds Charles of. That’s what it must taste like. An iced fruity drink on a summer day.
Has he tasted it before?
He would bet his pendant it tastes like grenadine.
‘What do you want to—’
