Anjali Joseph - The Living

He chuckled. His chest moved under my face.

What?

You’re funny, he said. He squeezed me with his arm. No, I meant, which way? Which other way do you like?

Like, position?

Mm.

I don’t know, I said. Er, from behind, sideways. I felt depressed, like in school when people would ask, What’s your favourite band, and you knew there was a right or wrong answer.

He looked down at me, interested. Embarrassed? he said.

Not embarrassed, I said. It’s just weird, talking about it.

Not embarrassed, but it’s weird talking about it, he repeated. He stretched his free arm towards the bedside table, looked at his watch, put it on his wrist.

What time is it? I said.

I’ve got a bit of time, he said.

I put my arm over his stomach. Under the curtain I could see the colour of the light, going from orangey to golden. Maybe it was around five thirty, six. When I’d got his text that afternoon I’d rushed home, taken a shower, waited for him. He usually left around six. Somehow he never ran into Jason. I didn’t plan it, or have to try.

Did I ever tell you about Lisa? he said. He put his free arm behind his head, looked up at the ceiling.

Lisa?

She was my first proper girlfriend, in school.

Oh, I said. No, you didn’t.

We were fifteen. We used to hang out at her house after school. Both her parents worked so we — she had a key.

Right.

He stroked my arm. She was so beautiful, he said. A really sexy girl. I didn’t know anything then — neither of us did. His voice was dreamy. He looked down at me suddenly. We did everything, he said. He laughed. We even got a book out of the library, can you imagine?

I smiled. He was looking at me but I wasn’t me. He was still talking and I began thinking, remembering how I’d felt in the afternoon, knowing I was going to have sex in a few hours. The smell of the machines and the oil giving me a headache, and being turned on, it reminded me of school, when I’d just started secondary. Sex had arrived then, for all of us — not that I was having sex yet, but all of a sudden it was there. There was a while, a few months, when it was all I could think of. I’d do it to myself whenever I could. A few times in a cubicle in the loo. It took no trying. Things were happening to all of us — breasts, hair on our legs, the boys starting to get spots and shave. For some reason, though, I thought I was the only one having this experience, this dirty but amazing secret.

It had been so long that I’d forgotten what it was like, but in the last few weeks I felt again that there was someone in the world who heard me. As though I could make a call, like a bird, and after a while someone would return it. Sometimes I’d be thinking of Damian and then I’d hear from him: magic.

The first day after I’d seen him I woke up feeling downy, cushioned, like a chick in a nest. There was nothing I needed. I felt more patient. Work was easier. Jason had gone out leaving some things — papers, a plate, a pan — on the table, more stuff in the lounge. I tidied up without thinking. While I was doing it, picking up socks from the blue velvet couch, a bit like the one we’d had at home when I was a kid, I thought maybe I should go and see Dad. Jason went to see them a month ago. He looks tired, Jason told me. He stopped, I remember, and took a drag on his fag. I hate him smoking, but I can’t say anything. He said, He looks like he’s drying up, Mum. He looks smaller.

I should go and see them, I thought. I patted the sofa cushions. I thought of Mum at the bakery, and fixing it up with her, a time to drop round, and her face, fat with anger, and I thought I would.

The second day, I started to think about Damian. When would I see him next? I made a bet with myself. If I saw two people wearing a red top between the factory door and the top of Plumstead Road, I’d see him tomorrow. If I — Sometimes I’d be right. This time the days passed. Three, four, five. I waited. He called, said impatiently, Sorry I haven’t been around for a bit. I said it’s fine. I know you’re busy. He seemed to relax.

It was in the back of my mind, anyway, Jason being away in a few weeks, and the lovely time Damian and I would have. It’d be easy. So I waited. Things would get better. That Friday I was walking home, a beautiful sunny afternoon. Ahead of me down the hill the cathedral spire was pale gold in a blue sky. The world had never had any problems. I thought, everyone has something, something they need from other people. Some people want to be loved. Some want to be admired. Some people just need to know you don’t need them to be any way other than they are. I was calm, except when I wasn’t. I felt good. I’m learning, I thought, as I walked in the sunshine. It was different from other things, like with Pete, Jason’s dad. It’s simpler to think of him that way, Jason’s dad, an abstract person that I don’t see. It was all fire, and we were so young. When I found out I was pregnant he decided he’d go away to work. He said he might join the army. Later I heard he’d gone to America. His family wasn’t from round here, and they moved soon after. For a while he sent things for Jason, but not for long, a couple of years. A card on his birthday, and a present, for a while after that. Even that stopped ages ago. It was stupid, a mistake. But I got Jason out of it.

I got to our gate, opened it, and the fat cat from down the road miaowed and scurried out. Oh hello, I said. It hurried up the street, dodging under cars.

Things were different with Damian. It was quieter, slower. We hadn’t said anything about the future. But when we were together it felt simple, easy. This is better, I thought.

I sat just outside the storm and waited. It’s the only way. I pretended to read yesterday’s Evening News and drink a cup of tea but the tea got cold and I read and reread one caption: Eleven-year-old Hayley Adams is delighted to have been named the winner of … Photo of her, long hair, ambitious eyes, asking life, What have you got to offer me? Some kids give me the willies.

I wiped the table and cleaned the kitchen floor. I rolled a cigarette but didn’t light it. Jason kept coming in, asking about: his blue jumper, his football socks, his phone charger, no, wait, he had it, no, did I have it? Had I been using his fucking phone charger again? All that. Steve arrived, smiled at me. How are you, Claire? Nice to see you.

I found it funny, nice though, Sandra’s done a good job hasn’t she, or is Jason this smooth with other people’s mothers, probably. Jason came in the kitchen with his football holdall over his shoulder, shades on. Bye, Mum, he said, and gave me a hug.

I stood there staring at him. Had his voice gone deeper? Was he taller? Text me, I said.

Yeah yeah, he said. Definitely. He winked as he closed the door. If I don’t it only means I’ve run out of credit. He and Steve passed the glass, a blur of blue and laughter.

Well don’t run out of credit then, I said to the door. It blew open. The air outside was warm. I stood in the back yard and had my rollie and watched the leaves wave on the tree next door — an apple tree. Little green fruit turning colour. But the sky was blue and high. Autumn couldn’t ever come, not for a long time. When I’d finished smoking and had that ashy, restful feeling I turned back. I’d get the house ready and then get in touch with Damian.

It felt good to clean. I bought flowers, tidied up the back garden — picked up the crisp packets that blow in, cut the edges of the grass. Swept the patio. We might sit out in the morning for breakfast. I tidied the lounge, the bedroom, changed the sheets and put on the soft cotton ones I’d bought a month ago, vacuumed. The windows were open. I smelled flowers, the exhaust of a car going past, heard voices floating on the warm air.