Armand Phones a Friend
November 24-25
18 hours sober
“Everybody takes a little tumble now and then,” Karim reminded me, using the butt of his last cigarette to light another and then puffing in the hollow of his hands.The smoke mingled with the steam of his breath, and the red glow between his fingers made him seem like an ancient god, staring down at the concept of fire, weighing the pros and cons of sharing it with humanity.
Mortal that I was, I used my lighter.“Doesn’t help that I live atop an oil slick,” I grumbled.
He rolled his eyes.“Yani, none have suffered as you have suffered?”
“No, they bloody well haven’t.”
We hugged.“Make sure you ring someone.”He squeezed the life out of me for emphasis.
“I can’t be badgering you at all hours of the day,Sidi.”
“It doesn’t have to be me.Just someone.And you don’t have to tell them why, say you love them.Ask what’s on telly.Tell them to fuck off.But reach out to someone,habibi.All we got to hold on to in this world is one another.”
Oh, whatbollocks.
I made it home in the rain and ice, paced the flat, left again, and circled the block.I went back upstairs—careful not to make any noise in the hall that might wake Winnie—then returned to the cold, smoking on the fire escape.
It was a quarter after one, and I wasn’t ringing Lucas.
Or Karim, or Lakshmi, or Belle, or Sam, or Craig, or anyone who had work in the morning.Some of them were still awake, surely, but we were all at an age where the discouragement of such behavior was the mark of true friendship.
I wasn’t ringing Lucas.
But there was someone else I knew who would definitely be up at this hour.
“Armaaand!Oh my god, I can’t believe you called.Skyler, look who it is!”I briefly saw a ruddy-faced Finch, then he turned me on a tableful of strangers, and it took everything I had not to ring off.I spotted Skyler flanked by an enormous middle-aged ginger and small auburn-haired fairy who must’ve been the Finches senior, as well as a pair of young people, likely Skyler’s brother Matt and the fabled Delia.They all looked happy, sleepy, and well-fed.
God help me, I’d rung during bloody Finchgiving.
“Everybody, say ‘Hi, Armand!’”
“Hi, Armand,” the table chorused, not a note of awkwardness among them.
“Er.Hi.”
Finch turned the camera back on himself and squinted at me.“Where are you?Why is it so dark?”
“I’m, er ...I’ve stepped out for a smoke.”Better than admitting I was lingering on a freezing fire escape in the early hours of the morning.
“Lucas asleep?”
Don’t lie.Don’t lie.Don’t lie.“No idea.He’s at his mum’s.”
Finch’s gaze darted past me at, one assumes, the table of friends and family watching him play mental health coach to a man nearly ten years his senior.“Um, guys?I’ll be right back, just gonna give Armand a tour of the garden.”
I sat down and leaned back against the railing, hunched around my phone, waiting for Finch to take me somewhere quiet.When he had—I could see a beautiful starry evening sky and several dogs sweetly nosing his shoulders—Finch set me down on something and focused in.“Hey there, Big Guy.”
“Hullo, Titch.”
“You good, bro?”
I grimaced.“No, I am not ‘good, bro.’Sorry, I didn’t mean to take you away from everything—”
