GOOD AUGUST
IS NOT SMITTEN
“Are you sure it’s not worse than you’re making out? Because a few hours ago, you said my coffee can’t hold yours.”
“Bad analogy. There’s nothing wrong with your decaf. I’ll think of a better one next time.”
It’s still eighteen forty-four, and I’m still walking the streets of old London with myself from another reality. He swears we had to take a longer, roundabout route because the area between my house and the pub is a wretched hive of scum and villainy. But I don’t recall this being the history of St. John’s Wood. I also slightly wonder if he’s enjoying himself as much as I am.
He’s incredibly easy to talk to, like an old friend. He gets my jokes, and I laugh at his. I guess that makes sense. But I’m still looking at his soft, black jumper, wondering how much that cost. Listening to all these bright things he says, and… I suppose he must be quite different to me, deep down. In the ways it counts. Walking around with a brain like that.
“I still want your help,” he assures me. “I should… I could really use someone to… go over the maths with.”
“I’m terrible at maths.” And even if I’m laughing on the outside, as usual, I’m dying inside. I don’t want him to know how hopeless I am, at maths or at anything else. I don’t want him to see my flat on the inside. I don’t want him to know how bad things are for me. And I really don’t want him to know that I’m such a useless fuckup.
“I don’t believe that. You’re the most like me that…” He stumbles over his words, hacking out a fake-sounding cough and winding a hand in the air before finishing, “that a person could be. Obviously. Because you’re me.”
“Kind of.”
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
What?“What?” Those words came out of absolutely nowhere.
“Just wondering,” he says casually, “if I’m taking you away from anything…”
Taking me away from anything?
He’s not flirting, calm the fuck down.
“No. Um. I was seeing someone, but… that blew up. A little while back.”
“What a shame.” Why is he smiling like that? Why did he say itlike that?
I’m probably imagining it.
“Yeah, it was… It needed to happen. Did you ever have a thing where you knew it wasn’t right, and you just kept going? Waiting for the stars to align or something?”
“Not really. That’s not how stars work.”
“No, I don’t mean like… I know that.” He walks on, waiting for me to talk, so I mumble out, “It was never going to work. I think I was just… flattered that someone like him liked me.”
His eyes are sharp but brief on me, that smile wider and accompanied by a scoffing sound. “What are you talking about? You’re gorgeous.”
The surprise of the comment shoots a lead weight straight to my foot, and failing to lift it, it collides with the edge of a cobblestone, sending me tripping forward. His arm shoots out to catch me, and we two come to a dead stop in the middle of this late-night Victorian street scene. It would probably feel romantic if I weren’t keenly aware that I’m here with myself. But even then, there’s a strange breathlessness that tightens my chest. Nineteenth-century air?
The corner of his lips is still upturned, but his voice is a little softer now. “Sorry. I hope that’s not weird coming from me. From you. Sort of. You probably don’t think the same thing about me.” But before I can even attempt to disagree, he walks on, talks on, face turned away from mine so I can’t read his expression. “You’ve put in the effort with your looks, you know? Going on runs. Exercising in the park. Doing karate.”
“Just how long have you been watching me?” is the best I can manage at the unexpected shift in conversation.
“Not long. A few days. Maybe… closer to a week.”
“Only a week, huh?”
Ignoring my sardonic reply, he waffles on. “It shows. All that exercise you’ve been doing. You’ve got beautiful skin. And I guess you got your eyes lasered?”
“I did.” Feeling slightly overwhelmed, both at the compliments and the reminder he’s my actual stalker, I hasten to add, “But now that I see those glasses on you, I’m kind of regretting it.”
Maybe I just needed those frames all along? He does look really good in them.
