‘Are we still friends?’ I shouted, my voice crackly and weak.
‘Of course,’ he replied, with a sad kind of smile.
He walked home alone, and I stayed frozen there for quite some time. I guess I took his word for it, and things went back to normal, without the kissing. I knew it was my fault for how I had handled things, and for not finding the right way to say things, so I took the loss. But from that moment, there was not a time I looked at Fran’s lips when I wasn’t thinking about kissing them.
9
It is hard to decipher whether this is a good kiss or a terrible one, when all I can feel is the shred of harsh stubble turning my chin red raw. There is urgency, which I appreciate, and a flammable kind of smell wafting through my nasal passages every few moments, which I appreciate less. I am returning his force with aggression of my own, though only one of us will have to cover the evidence of this encounter with concealer tomorrow. Best not to think too hard about it, or at all. That is how I got here to begin with, after leaving the party, so I only need to stay the course. When he burps beer fragrance into my mouth, I have to pull back, to draw the line somewhere.
‘Sorry about that,’ he laughs, without an ounce of shame.
‘It’s fine, just keep going,’ I reply.
My chin shrieks its objections as I send it back to its gruesome posting. Perhaps I, too, will be in need of a false chin by night’s end. My intention, upon visiting this dimly lit beer garden at such a late hour during holiday season, was exactly this. And here I am, actualising my plan. Following through. Go, me. This man, Levi, an old classmate of Luke’s, is lucky – or perhaps unlucky – enough to fill the role I require. I am glad, at least, he is somewhat age-appropriate, because that was in no way a prerequisite. He moves his hands roughly over my chest, and I hope repositioning my body will indicate to him that it does not feel great. Alas, my inability to communicate seems to be a physical issue as well as a verbal one. When one hand slips down the front of my dress to squeeze my nipple, hard, I decide I have to be a bit clearer with him. I take Levi’s hand and place it on my lower back, where it quickly makes its way towards my arse; not ideal, but slightly better at least.
‘Should we go back to your place?’ my voice requests, and I am curious as to how it has done that all on its own.
‘Nah, I’m only back here for Christmas, staying with my folks. What about yours?’ he replies.
‘I live with my parents,’ I reply.
He continues kissing me for a moment, and then pauses to ask: ‘How old are you?’
‘I’m twenty-one,’ I reply.
‘Cool, just checking. Don’t want that trouble again.’
I realise he is either very drunk or very terrible to have made a comment like that, out loud, to a woman he is dry-humping against a tree out the back of a pub. Pondering which is the better of the two options, I decide on drunk. Let’s go with drunk. An intoxicated man will probably not be able to make me come, but he will at least try, whereas a predator might actually enjoy my lack of enjoyment, if I am to go off past experience. Ready to get to the part where I am walking home full of shame and self-loathing, I run my hand across the front of his jeans.
‘Jesus,’ he moans, and I feel good, at least, to have made someone take the Lord’s name in vain. Not for blasphemous reasons; purely for the sake of being seen as desirable, or capable.
I ascend my body yet again and allow her to get the messy show on the road. My skirt is hitched up, my eyes are shut tight, and the curtain call comes after only a few pumps and groans.
‘That was incredible,’ Levi says, peeling his sweaty body away from mine. ‘Was it good for you?’
‘Yep, incredible,’ my voice responds.
‘We should exchange numbers, do this again sometime. I’m here until New Year’s.’
I take a quick look into his eyes, and find, surprisingly, he means it. Resisting the urge to transfer some of my disgust to him, I smile and say, ‘Let’s leave it at one perfect night. And who knows, I might see you around.’
He kisses my hand and I get on my way before I actually throw up. Not because he is so awful, but because all of that motion and pressure and odour and wine has left me feeling quite nauseous. Nausea seems to be the one thing I cannot escape by leaving myself; it follows, nausea of the mind just as feasible as the stomach variety. The walk home will settle both kinds.
I dabbled in dissociative episodes long before the final boss came along and wiped me out of the game completely. As a small child, they were snack-sized, but by high school they had started to become whole meals. One particular scene that decides to present itself on my slow and winding walk home from the pub occurred at school during a lunch break. I can almost smell the tuckshop sausage rolls, We were sitting in our spot, the hut close to the oval, when Poppy pulled out her phone, a look of delight on her face.
‘Have you guys seen this?’ she asked, handing her phone to Mara.
‘What is it?’ Harper asked.
‘Oh my God, this is hilarious,’ Mara said, explaining nothing.
‘Someone has started this page – it’s anonymous but I mean, I can guess who did it,’ Poppy replied.
‘Why am I a nine when you’re a ten?’ Mara asked. ‘Rude.’
‘Bigger tits, apparently,’ Poppy replied.
‘Well, not apparently. They are,’ I said, committed, as always, to too much truth.
