A. Kennedy - All the Rage

You’ve made a mistake.

Not a big one.

But personal situations like this — slightly undefined, barely begun — are fragile and it seems he is quite unforgiving, because after you withdraw your hand, his shoulders drop and the Dublin excursion ends with, ‘. . anyway. Where was I. .?’ Something about him seems to have given up.

He prods the casserole with his spoon. He no longer appears to be nervous, simply dismayed by unappealing food.

While he makes himself eat, you hammer together remarks on the day and the river, let them go at intervals and rearrange areas of your lasagne.

You remove its corners.

But that only makes more.

If an observer were to glance over here again they would see — acquaintances at lunch, acquaintances in the same place, the mutually restless gestures that suggest both parties will finish shortly and go away.

Which is all right.

Really.

It is.

You don’t absolutely need another friend, but he would be fine in that capacity. You could be content with that. Probably. An occasional coffee — no more lunches — could happen. Without the anxiety over whether you’ll seem presentable, or sensible, or amusing, or lovable, or repeatable, or anyone significant, you could enjoy yourself. You could chat.

Or else you could not chat, as it turns out, because although you can feel yourself sinking into friendship, there is currently no conversation. This man is staring mutely towards the wide brightness of the water and the far bank and you aren’t inclined to interrupt him. It seems there is nothing you can offer to beat the view.

Under other circumstances you might suggest fetching desserts, or getting more drinks — the ones you have being too cold, too hot, too unintoxicating, too incorrect. But you’d basically rather not, because it’s obvious he’ll make his excuses and refuse you. Having worked this through in your mind and therefore avoided being humiliated, you somehow already are.

You suspect you may have to be angry with him soon as a matter of sheer self-defence, and meanwhile there’s no hesitancy left to prevent you from facing him, shifting your chair from its perfect location — you regret this, but he doesn’t notice — and truly seeing at him.

Whatever could have formed between you is gone and over, but nevertheless you study him, what he is. This man.

And he is completely at rest and so it’s plain, this truth you didn’t find but should have — he is beautiful.

Sometimes he can’t hide it.

And this information repositions everything — dunt — the chairs, table, concrete, city, river, sky, and makes them expressions of emptiness.

‘So. .’ He stretches, rubs his hand at the back of his neck and frowns. ‘Yes.’ Gives you a bland smile. ‘Time to go. I think. I think time to go.’ After which he stands and you stand with him.

There is a point at the embankment — it arrives with an immense rapidity — where he must head left for his car and you must head right for the Underground, or for a walk across the bridge, or else a longer journey to exhaust yourself, break up through Westminster and into Soho, further, or else aim for Chelsea, for the World’s End, and keep on going until it’s dark and you are done.

You are very tired of being disappointed.

You’ll get over it, be cheerier tomorrow, but standing in the sunlight with this man you’re not over it yet.

You haven’t taken his hand because the idea of shaking it goodbye makes you too sad.

And here are his shoes. You are evidently staring at his shoes. They are quite ugly. Like you.

‘Okay. Okay.’ This man who is not telling you a story. ‘Okay.’ But repeating one word for no particular reason. ‘Okay.’ Until he leans down and you can’t help but look, it is natural to look, and he’s here and increasingly close and then brings you a kiss.

This kiss.

He kisses with a pressure which is nearly an absence and therefore aches.

You kiss him back.

You do not kiss as if you are friends.

You do not kiss as if you are acquaintances.

You kiss, both of you, back and soft and back and soft and back.

You kiss each other back.

This kiss.

You do not know him, this man. He is practically a stranger. Only he’s not.

Acknowledgements are due to the editors of the following:

Elsewhere (Edinburgh International Book Fair anthology),

Freedom (Amnesty International anthology), Granta

The author of six novels, three books of nonfiction, and five collections of short stories, A. L. Kennedy’s last novel, The Blue Book , was longlisted for the Orange Prize for Fiction, and her novel Day was the 2007 Costa Book of the Year. She has twice been selected as one of Granta ’s Best of Young British Novelists and has won a host of other awards. She lives in London and is a part-time lecturer in creative writing at Warwick University.

House of Anansi Press was founded in 1967 with a mandate to publish Canadian-authored books, a mandate that continues to this day even as the list has branched out to include internationally acclaimed thinkers and writers. The press immediately gained attention for significant titles by notable writers such as Margaret Atwood, Michael Ondaatje, George Grant, and Northrop Frye. Since then, Anansi’s commitment to finding, publishing and promoting challenging, excellent writing has won it tremendous acclaim and solid staying power. Today Anansi is Canada’s pre-eminent independent press, and home to nationally and internationally bestselling and acclaimed authors such as Gil Adamson, Margaret Atwood, Ken Babstock, Peter Behrens, Rawi Hage, Misha Glenny, Jim Harrison, A. L. Kennedy, Pasha Malla, Lisa Moore, A. F. Moritz, Eric Siblin, Karen Solie, and Ronald Wright. Anansi is also proud to publish the award-winning nonfiction series The CBC Massey Lectures. In 2007, 2009, 2010, and 2011 Anansi was honoured by the Canadian Booksellers Association as “Publisher of the Year.”