I hear him sigh into the phone. ‘Of course. Do you want to talk about it?’
‘Can I come and get somewhere inside first?’
‘Okay. Yeah. We’ll talk when you get here. See you soon,’ he says. He sounds cosy. I wonder if he’ll give me a nice warm hug when I get there.
I get the rest of the way downstairs and shuffle quickly down the darkened street, eyes darting left and right, phone clutched tightly in my hand. I make it to my car, get in and lock the doors behind me. And then before I start the engine I realise something.
‘Hello?’ He sounds a bit worried now in this second call.
‘I don’t know where you live,’ I say. ‘How the hell did I fuck you when I don’t even know where you live?’
It’s silent for a moment, and I check my screen to see if he’s hung up. In the distance between my ear and the phone, I suddenly hear some tinkling laughter. He laughs at me a lot. Is he laughingatme, or am I hilariously funny?
‘I’ll text you the address now,’ he says.
We only live about ten minutes from each other. We’ve been so close, all this time, and I never knew. Before a few months ago, I might have passed him in the street and not even made eye contact. I might have silently judged him on the tram for manspreading.
Now I can’t imagine what things would be like without him. I don’t want to.
He lives in a cute little single-front, one-storey terrace. It looks well maintained in the dark—the iron lacework isn’t rusted, the black and white tiles on the veranda aren’t cracked. And his bins look remarkably clean, like he actually keeps them that way, which is just absolutely wild to me. I briefly imagine him shirtless in the sun on a Sunday afternoon, slapping a dripping soapy sponge against the side of the bins. There is a hallway light that illuminates colourful rippled glass panes in the blue door.
I check and recheck the address he sent me several times before knocking, just in case this is a night-owl neighbour’s house and not Arthur’s. He opens the door with one hand and rubs his eye with the other. Hair sticking up in all directions in a way I find instantly endearing, he has clearly rolled from the bed to the door, bypassing a mirror. He’s wearing the same trackies from the beach house with a bleach stain on the knee and that sinful see-through T-shirt. No one has the right to look like that when unceremoniously wrenched from their slumber.
I caught a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror on the ride here, and the same cannot be said for me.
I haven’t said anything because I’ve been staring at the outdent his nipples are making in his T-shirt. If he thinks I’m being weird, he’s allowing it under the circumstances, and he just grabs my hand to pull me inside and shuts the door. Then I’m enveloped in a hug that’s as warm and cosy as I imagined, and I think my body knows I’m safe now because I just saginto him and burst into tears.
We stay like that for a while. He holds me. Sways slightly from side to side. Runs a hand up and down my back, through my hair. Kisses the side of my head.
Eventually, he leads me to his bedroom. Through the one blurry eye not presently squished into his chest, I vaguely note an elegant sideboard buffet in the hallway, and a long, patterned rug that runs the length of the floor. It must be custom-made, I think, staring blankly at the intricate swirls at my feet. Red bleeds into blue into green. I must be crying again. God, he’s a proper adult with a sideboard, and I’m lowering the resale value of his house just by standing in it.
We turn right halfway down the hallway, and he uses a foot to knock the door shut behind us. A small lamp gives off a warm yellow light, and when I try to pull away from him, shadows dance across his face…his frowny, concerned face.
I don’t get too far; he leads me to the bed, sits me down and pulls off my sturdy work shoes. I try to tell him not to touch the soles—heaven knows where they’ve been—but the words don’t come out. Shoe. Then another. My socks. He stands me up. Kneels in front of me to remove my pants. In another context, I would enjoy him doing that again. Then my shirt. He runs over to a built-in wardrobe and pulls out a large crew-neck jumper, while I just stand there, unmoving, in my undies.
Then he falters, seemingly unsure if removing my bra is a bridge too far. If I were in a better state, I’d make a joke about how it’s nothing he hasn’t seen before. As it is, I’ve gathered myself enough to do it myself, then grab the jumper from his now-slack hands, which match his slightly slack jaw.Comforting to know I’m still capable of inspiring that reaction despite my current circumstances and the fact that his shirt is now fully see-through from my tears and, presumably, my snot. I wipe my nose on the sleeve without thinking.
That’s fucking gross, Gertie. It’s not yours.
He’s nice enough to wait until I’m cocooned within his dark green sheets, clutched all the way to my chin, to ask me what happened. He’s also smart enough to place a box of tissues between us before I begin. This is good. It’s very good and very normal. I definitely don’t cry again. Much. Arthur doesn’t say anything, just keeps stroking my hair, letting me talk until I run out of steam, and we both fall asleep.
I wake before him in the morning and take the time to watch him a little. He’s on his stomach, arms above the covers, inexplicably clutching the squashed tissue box like a teddy bear. His faint snores shouldn’t be cute, but they are.
My phone, retrieved from the floor, tells me that it’s ten-thirty and I have no new notifications. When I lock the screen, it goes black, and I get a brief glimpse of my face and hair. I toss the phone back on the floor and tiptoe out to find the bathroom.
If I happen to look in every room on my way, that’s just because I don’t know my way around.
The house gives off the vibe of a grandparent who left Arthur the place almost fully furnished. The key pieces of furniture look old. Well cared for, but old. The dining set (in a separate dining room!) looks seventies, and not in that way where modern furniture is made in a seventies style but coststens of thousands of dollars. I can’t imagine a thirty-something-year-old man choosing the stained-glass lamps in the sitting room. Only little pops of modernity, a newer couch, an abstract artwork, feel like Arthur’s stamps.
But even if he did inherit this house, it has a separate room for the laundry, so I am mightily impressed.
In the bathroom, I find mouthwash under the sink. That’ll work okay in tandem with the finger toothbrush. I throw cold water over my face and dry it on the towel that looks the least like he uses it between his butt cheeks. My hair is the biggest issue. I grope around on the counter. Check every drawer. Twice.
Ha! I found his flaw. Actually I’m relieved because he was starting to feel a little too perfect, which is either too intimidating or means that he is a serial killer. What kind of man doesn’t own a hairbrush? It’s just a thing everyone has.
Hair in a messy knot, a future-me problem, I wander barefoot into the kitchen and look in the fridge. About twenty minutes later, I am scrambling eggs at his induction stove (he will never know how long it took me to figure out how to turn on that stove) when Arthur emerges, rubbing his face with both hands.
‘Morning,’ I say, not turning away from the eggs.
