‘You said something last night,’ he says, the trepidation clear.Were you just drunk, or is there something more… his question asked without the words being spoken.
I’m silent. Frozen. Unable to decide what to say. Because whatdoyou say? When the man you think of as your nemesis is possibly the only person who could understand the truth you’ve been living this past week. The truth you don’t really want to voice, not even to yourself. The truth that it appears last night you drank so much you blurted it out to him anyway.How did you even get his number?the logical part of me asks. I don’t think I really want to know; the shame is already burning through me.
‘Meet me at the Two Farmers in an hour,’ he says, naming a pub not far from my flat. He hangs up before I can refuse.
So I guess that’s that then.
I have a shower and drag a brush through my hair, even put on some make-up to try to turn my sallow hungover face into something a little less hideous. Not because I care what he thinks. But I don’t want him to judge me. I’ve already judged myself enough, thank you.
He – because of course he does – looks amazing. Like he got ten hours sleep last night and perhaps even went for a facial this morning. Or at the very least a jog.
I cower in the corner, trying not to sweat pure whisky from my pores.
He puts a half pint of lager down in front of me and I physically blanch at the sight and scent of it.
‘Drink it,’ he says in a commanding tone. ‘A hairy dog will do you the world of good.’
I smile at the way he says ‘hairy dog’; it’s the same phrase Cesca uses to describe a drink the day after the night before.Perhaps that’s why I pick it up and take a tentative sip. It soothes my throat. I take another sip, one that turns into a gulp as I greedily devour the whole glass. I instantly feel better, brighter, less like the world is going to end at any moment.
‘Good?’ he asks.
‘I wasn’t that drunk,’ I say.
‘Oh really?’ He stands up. ‘I’ll get another round and then you can tell me everything.’
He leaves me to stew while he goes to the bar. What should I tell him? The truth? Or should I laugh it off that Iwasdrunk and it was all nothing.
‘So … What is your earth like?’ he asks, plonking two glasses full of ice and two bottles of the passionfruit cider I love on the table.
It takes my poor hungover brain a few seconds to catch up with what he just asked. And the full implications of the question.
I don’t answer as I pour my cider, forcing all my concentration into the action.
‘Different,’ I reply eventually. I peer at him over the rim of the glass, waiting for his reaction.
‘Hmm,’ he says and sips his own drink. ‘Any more clarity you can bring?’
I shrug. Where do I even begin?
‘You said this isn’t the first other place …’
Just how much did I say last night?
As if he can read my mind, he cocks his head slightly. ‘How many times have you skipped?’
‘Five,’ I reply, mumbling my words into my glass as if that will take the batshit craziness out of them.
‘Right.’ He nods a few times. Then he stares at me. I meet his gaze. Hold it for a few moments. An understanding passes between us.
‘You believe me.’ It isn’t a question.
‘Why would you lie?’ he says simply.
‘You don’t think I’m going mad? Losing the plot entirely?’
He lets out ahuh. ‘Maybe. But we both know it’s possible. What you’re experiencing, it’s entirely logical, entirely plausible. If you were going to manifest some kind of hallucination about your reality I’d really hope you’d be original enough to make it something completely out of left field.’
I offer him a thin smile. Widen it slightly. Perhaps he isn’t so bad after all. The easy way he has simply accepted this reality I find myself in is … well, it isn’t entirely dissimilar to the way I have been dealing with it up to now.
