by Jessica Tremp
I used to see him sometimes in the milk bar across the road. He was always walking in there on his own and never walking out with much more. My friend Celia thought he was kind of cute with his hands tucked into his leather jacket, his dark hair a little aimless and thin legs so purposefully striding in those black jeans. She was always thinking people were cute though, all giggly and whispery and I’d just shrug my shoulders at her. Secretly I wondered what he kept inside those pockets. Perhaps his fingers were playing with scrunched up receipts which he dropped behind him like pitter patter snow flakes – a trail of insight into his belly longings.
Perhaps he bought mangoes when they were in season and was waiting for someone equally mango loving to pick up his clues, so they may sit on the kitchen bench in underwear together and get juicy chins and fingers, sucking away at those mango stones and talking about climbing mango trees together like love drunk monkeys somewhere far away.
It was quite likely of course, that he was just checking his pockets for cigarettes, in case he had to pick up a new pack along with toast bread and spaghetti sauce.
Well, I was getting some groceries at the supermarket after work the other day and there were so many people. God, I hate going in there sometimes, but I was really looking forward to making some pancakes because I knew they’d make me feel happy and I was hungry after all after such a long day. It was always such a long day. Anyway, I saw this guy just sitting down in one of the aisles and I thought maybe he’d fallen down, or felt dizzy. But then surely people would have helped him up.
They just kept moving around and past him, like a herd of wildebeest past a fallen gnu, so I figured he must be a deliberate idiot. At first I was going to turn around and pretend I didn’t see him, but then I just accelerated and aimed straight at him. I pushed my shopping trolley right into his spine. I mean, why the fuck would he jam everyone’s way when he surely could see we all just wanted to get out again too, you know?
He didn’t move. He didn’t even look up, so I rammed my trolley into him again. Harder this time. It felt really good and I hoped he wouldn’t react so I could give it another go. So I could kick the stupid thing right into his flesh with all my might. He did though. He turned to me with a surprisingly blank expression. That’s when I recognized him.
His toffee jacket should have been the giveaway. He was quite beautiful up close. I felt a bit funny in the stomach then, probably out of guilt, so I offered him my hand, hoping to help him up, but he just tugged and pulled me down instead. I didn’t expect that and it made me trip and land with a thud. It hurt my knee really badly. He laughed at that. Fucker! I should have jumped up and left him there to rot away on the linoleum floor, but my knee was sore after all, so I stayed and steadied myself next to him.
We both sat silently, in the middle of the packed aisle. I looked at all the pasta around me and tried to guess what shapes people would pick by the way they dressed. Linguine for the business man; Penne for the woman with the two kids hanging off her top, almost revealing her big breasts to the packets of Orecchiette and macaroni; Angel Hair Pasta for the girl with the cool skirt, red lips and fancy ingredients in her basket.
My floor neighbor was staring straight ahead while I cradled my leg and gathered the hem of my dress around it. It was a pretty dress. Celia had bought it with me. She was always telling me what suited me and what didn’t. It was yellow with white flowers, that could almost be small round sheep if you squinted hard enough. I wished they were sheep. I picked at the lace trimming and hid behind my hair until he looked at me, brushed my long fringe behind my ear and smiled.
I slid a little closer to him and reached into the trolley behind me to pick out the maple syrup which I’d carefully selected before. You have to have the real stuff if you’re going to make pancakes, you see. I unscrewed the top and took a big swig from it, letting out a sigh as if it were strong like whiskey and burning my insides on its slithery-slidey way down into my belly. I was waiting for it to make a fire in there, one he might be able to hear crackling, that would warm us both, but nothing happened. So I took another swig and then handed him the bottle.
He took a sip too and then smashed it against the shelf with the cans of tomatoes standing tall like red aluminum monsters. I felt a little sad for the rest of the maple syrup that hung its head as it slumped all the way down the metal stands. People scattered away from us, picking up infants, turning their heads tsk-tsking, and their eyes were wide, like fleeing rabbits’. I was happy for the room they left us. It made breathing down on the floor much easier. He picked up some of the shards of glass, watched the light bouncing off them in rainbows trill in his palm and calmly offered me his hand again.
I took it and squeezed it against mine tightly. So tight. So tight I never wanted to let go again. From our joint palms ran red little rivers. They snaked down over our fingers and left us like tired waterfalls. I named one of them Phillip. Phillip was gliding down between our feet and making his way towards the lasagna sheets. We discussed where Phillip would travel to if he could pick his own countryside and we both agreed that the hills around him would be mossy green, like somewhere in Ireland maybe. Yes, he smiled. Phillip would enjoy the music and laughter streaming faintly from the faraway pubs as well as the misty, blanketing sky there.
It sure would be better than the bright fake neon lights in here I added. Don’t forget the birds keeping him company and the fish jumping in and out of him, opening and closing their gills to him, like hearts. Breathing him in. Breathing him out. And all that rain that would feed him, bringing him stories from the sky. Lucky Phillip.
There was a pause then, so I leaned my head on my fellow-sitting friend’s hunched shoulder, let my hair stick to the spilled syrup speckling his cheek and breathed in long measured strokes, inhaling the sickly sweet air that mixed with his musk and tobacco skin. The rushing and running of feet and chaotic legs around us became Phillip’s mighty roar, snaking through his beautiful countryside as we pressed our hands together even firmer. I felt faint all of a sudden as the lights above began to flicker and Phillip was hissing in my ears. It was all beginning to get a little dark so I let out a whisper into his shoulder, asking if he’d like to join me for pancakes at home. I felt his lips on my forehead.
They were wet, like Phillip. I was so cold and heavy. I closed my eyes as I felt myself go under. I was sinking. Deeper and deeper until I was a stone and drowning in Phillip. His flush was all enveloping as I plummeted and by the time I hit his soft riverbed, it had all gone quiet and I waited for the stories from the sky.
