‘And do you know how surly and rude I’ve been this week since I had this great epiphany? What ifthat’sthe core of this personality you’re so convinced I have? What if the only part that’s actually me is the shit part? I mean, you should know best. You saw it when we first met! That’s the only explanation if my instinct in the face of adversity is just to become a raging anxious bitch.’
He appears to be a bit further away now—has he actually inched away in case this spiral is leading towards violence? I should be used to that apprehensive look on people’s faces by now.
He says, ‘No one is just the shit part of themselves. Except like, dictators.’
I don’t dignify that with a response.
At some point, I don’t know when, Arthur clearly decided that we need to share some fairy-floss confection as a ‘dessert course’ for our breakfast. He also ordered me a camomile tea, which is presumptuous given that a coffee and tea order is a very personal thing but also smart because I really don’t need more caffeine. My heart feels like it has beat enough for ninety years’ worth of life. Does a heart have a finite number of beats? If I use them all before my time’s up, will I just topple? I can imagine the headline:Generic white woman passes away from natural causes. Except it would never make the news.
‘Sorry,’ he says through a mouthful of candied hotcake. He swallows and I watch the lump travel down his throat. What is he sorry for? What is that strange little grimace of guilt for? He exhales. ‘I didn’t…I didn’t think. It would be a cop-out to blame the booze. There’s a good lesson here about understanding the power of words and wielding them thoughtfully.’
Is he serious? I trot out a decade of psychological intrigue and he’s like a walking inspirational-quote poster. ‘I’m so glad that this could be a teachable moment for you as well.’
He throws a piece of fairy floss at me. ‘Hmm, maybe youarejust a nasty piece of work.’ There’s no heat in his words. It’s so different from how he spoke to me that first night.
‘Shut up. Okay, so now we’ve had all these revelatory revelations, what are we going to do about it?’
‘Was the heartfelt apology you just received—and entirely ignored, BTW—not what you were after here?’
‘I need you to fix me!’
‘What? Why me?’
‘Why the hell not you? You’re the one who did this to me!You opened up this box, and now you have to help me close it!’
Silence stretches between us. We’ve had terse silence. Ignoring silence. Calm and peaceable silence. This one is a plotting silence. I quite like that he’s not dismissing me out of hand but instead actually deeply considering what I have to say.
‘Right. So. What are your hobbies?’ he asks. Given the length of the silence, I was expecting a little more than this, but perhaps demanding for him to become my personal personality Yoda with no prior experience is a tall order. Maybe I should cut him some slack, see where he takes it.
‘I couldn’t even tell you.’ I’m aware I’m not giving him much to work with.
‘How? Do you not have any? Do you just sit in the dark twiddling your thumbs between work shifts? Everyone spends their time doingsomething.’ He leans back in his chair, mimicking what he described with a comically blank look on his face. It annoys me how funny it is. No one has ever called me funny.
‘Have you ever considered that we have been conditioned to believe that a meaningful life is one filled with activities for the sake of undertaking activities, but that the true purpose of an activity-filled life is to distract the general lemming populace from the corruption of the owner class? Because if we ever discovered that life is truly meaningless, the people would revolt, and the rich and powerful couldn’t have that.’
He stops mid-twiddle, which is satisfying. He did say I have a flair for the dramatic, so he really shouldn’t be so surprised. Does the chair inch back a little further though?
‘If existential philosophising is your current hobby, we’ve got work to do,’ he says. ‘But I’m starting to think that it won’tbe a problem of finding you a personality so much as it will be to contain what you’ve got once we dig it out.’
Is he calling metoo much? It may be the greatest compliment I’ve ever received.
See? Sad.
‘I’ll think about it,’ he goes on. ‘And I’ll come up with a plan.’
I’ve been home for about an hour when Bee enters. I think I’ve nearly worked up the courage to tell her about my day. Not all of it, mind you. More just the new resolve to hunt down individuality. I’m vibrating with anticipation as I sit on Bee’s bed waiting for her. How will it go? Will I see that warm expression on her face that friends in movies share when one of them has a win because they care as much about their friend’s happiness as their own? Maybe we’ll talk long into the night like we did when we were nineteen, dissecting every moment of a uni party. Except this time I might actually have something to contribute.
‘Gertrude! What are you doing in here?’ Bee dumps her bag in the corner of her room and begins shedding her ladies-who-lunch layers. First the coat draped over her shoulders, then the slouchy jumper, then the skirt, the boots, the tights. Replaced by a cosy jumper-and-trackies set in a pop of burgundy. I inhale to begin, but apparently I take too long in the silence because Bee fills it. ‘But it’s perfect that you are.’
She actually looks at me for the first time, rather than just knowing I’m there by feel and peripheral vision. ‘Have I seen that top before?’ I’ve owned it for six years. ‘It’s interesting.’ Itwill be going out with the next set of donations.
William has texted thesweetestthings all day.
Good morning, beautiful.
Hope you have a wonderful day, gorgeous.
Can’t wait to take you out again soon, babe.
