I’VE BEEN following John for about five minutes now and I don’t think we’re any closer to a pub than we were when we got out of the studio. He stops in front of a shop and looks up. “I live here.”
Oh shit. Fuck fuck fuck! That is 100 percent not what I thought he meant. But now I’m here and it would be really rude to back down, right? He’s invited me to his place after I talked to him about my problems and it’s only polite to stick around.
He looks at me and raises his eyebrows. “I thought you wanted a drink.”
Yeah, like, at the pub. But it’s okay. Maybe this is just a drink and—
“You looked a bit sad about your boyfriend.”
Okay. Maybe not just a drink.
And I am sad.
I am. And I must be going crazy, because even though I think I probably shouldn’t go in, when he stops looking at me and pushes the door open, I follow him inside.
And his place is… something else.
I don’t know what I expected, but it isn’t this. Right in front of the door, there are only stairs and this, like, purple and raspberry rose wallpaper that is so awful, it is beyond describable. Not just that, but the stairs themselves are actually carpeted and the carpet is all thick and heavy, and it looks dirty, though there’s no way for me to actually know that. The stairs are dark, and he doesn’t turn on the light.
After climbing up the stairs, I’m faced by a really… unusual-looking flat. I mean, it’s not that I expected John’s place to look like Levi’s, but this flat is just strange. The, carpet, I guess, changes. It covers this entire space, which is very, very small, and it’s not brown and dirty like the carpet on the stairs. It’s a dark grayish, reddish brown that is, like, trying to be mahogany but it is most definitely not and it has a pattern of flaxen yellow flowers on vines or something. I can’t really tell. It’s all abstract and terrible.
I guess there’s no accounting for taste, but I’m struggling to understand how a person that looks the way John does lives in a place like this. Once the carpet releases me from its hypnotizing grip, I manage to look around at the walls. At least the back wall is mostly covered with bookshelves, which are completely full. There are books upon books in rows and then stacked on top of each other, and it’s almost a wonder they can stay in there all together and bunched up at all. On the wall to the right, the one closest to the bookshelf, there’s a little side table—wait, no, that’s not a side table. That’s a telephone table. With an actual telephone, the type with a rotary dial. And then next to it is a turntable.
Holy shit.
I’m actually laughing now.
“What?”
“Nothing,” I say, between laughter, barely managing to keep my voice steady. “It’s just this place. I didn’t think it was very you at first, but now it seems like it’s very, very you.”
He narrows his eyes and tilts his head. “Okay?”
“Sorry,” I say, quieting down. I can tell that I upset him, which I didn’t mean to do. This place is just such a natural extension of his personality, while at the same time being totally anachronistic. “I didn’t mean it as an insult at all. I like it, I just—I don’t know, I guess I was expecting something different.”
“Like what?”
“You know, a fixie. And, handcrafted, recycled furniture or something,” I say. “I thought you’d be more….”
“What?”
Now that I’m thinking about it, I know it sounds stupid as fuck, but it’s not like I can’t not say it at this point. “You know, more hipster, less actual, I don’t know, punk.”
He shakes his head and laughs. “Damien,” he says. “What are you talking about? What in the world are a fixie and a hipster?”
“Right,” I say, laughing. “You know what? Just forget about it.”
IT TURNS out that John’s actually, like, really nice, when he’s not at work. He’s brought me a tin of Carlsberg without asking what I wanted, but I guess that’s fine, because I didn’t expect him to make me a cocktail or anything.
I’m nervous, so I haven’t talked much, but he doesn’t mind. He talks to me when I don’t answer his questions, shit about art and music and philosophy, but not in a Levi way, just in a “this is how adults talk” way.
He’s replaced tabs for spliffs, which is fine, but I can’t really keep up, so even though it’s only been about an hour since we’ve been at his flat, I’m super stoned. Especially because this isn’t like any weed I’ve ever had before. It’s really strong and heady. Probably some Amsterdam shit.
“Damien,” John says when he sees me sinking into the sofa. I think he’s been talking about something still, but his voice kind of melded with the street below us, all raspy and rough. I open my eyes to look at him. He doesn’t seem nearly as affected as I am.
“What?”
Talking takes so much effort. I hope this isn’t the start of him asking me questions, because I can hardly concentrate on what he’s saying. I definitely don’t think I can reply with anything cogent.
“You’re just—are you okay?”
“Just a bit stoned,” I say. “Do you have any films—oh my God, you don’t even have a television. You’re so hardcore.”
He laughs. “You know, I don’t understand what you’re saying, like, most of the time.”
That’s strange. He seems so smart. And it’s not like I’m saying important or intellectual or cultural shit. Most of the time, I’m just trying to make conversation. “You don’t?”
“No,” he says. “I think you make me feel a bit like—”
He puts his hand over his mouth, like he’s just realized he’s said too much. I make him feel something. I think if I wasn’t glued to this sofa I would be leaping with joy. Right now, hearing it just feels kind of nice, like warm water washing over me. I’m too intoxicated to worry about being polite, so I kick off my shoes and bring my knees to my chest. I haven’t noticed how cold it is in here until now.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
I nod. “Mhm. Tired. Cold.”
“Yeah,” he says. “My heating hasn’t worked for a few weeks now.”
Oh, so that’s why he’s still wearing his coat. It’s not because he’s trying to be cool. Okay, that makes sense. Now I wish I hadn’t left mine hanging on the hook on the door.
“Sorry,” I say. “And, uh, thanks.”
“What for?”
“You’re—I don’t know,” I mumble, sinking into the cloudy sofa again. “You’re just so, like, you didn’t have to do this at all. Just because I’m fighting with my boyfriend or whatever. I don’t think you even like me that much and—”
“I like you a lot,” he says, but he’s not looking at me anymore. He’s staring at the terrible carpet.
“Ahh,” I say, stroking the sofa with my cheek, and it’s so soft and wonderful it sends a tingling sensation down my spine. “You don’t have to lie to me, you know. This is enough. This is more than, I don’t know, enough. It’s perfect. Bit cold but perfect.”
He shakes his head and starts to undo the buttons on his coat. Under it he’s wearing his leather jacket with studs, but his actual coat is just a very standard and boring, long boxy gray coat. I watch him stand up and walk over to me before he kind of leans down and puts his coat on me. Not around my shoulders either. I mean over me, as if it were a blanket.
It smells of nicotine, gum, weed, beer, and him. I’m trying so hard not to be creepy and actually sniff it because that would be weird, I think. I mean, that crosses a line.
But this probably crosses a line too. I don’t know. And John is, like, kneeling over me and his eyes are shining under the dim yellow light and he has this small smile on his face, but it’s not smug or self-satisfied, it’s just kind of, I don’t know, sweet.
And even though my arm feels like it’s swimming in a bathtub full of jam, I stretch it out and touch his face. I mean, it takes forever, and his eyes go really, really wide before the back of my hand actually lands softly on his skin, which isn’t smooth but isn’t rough either. He just has a tiny little bit of stubble growing all over his angular face.
His lines.
And holy shit, he’s beautiful. Especially when he finally gives in, when he closes his eyes and leans into my touch and I can feel his quickened breathing against my skin. He’s so cold, though, I suddenly feel a little guilty that he’s given me his coat and I’m basically burrowing into his sofa like some sort of stealthy house pet.
“John,” I say. “You know you don’t have to—”
He doesn’t move. He doesn’t fucking move at all when he speaks, so I can even feel the fluttering of his eyelashes against my skin when he blinks. “What? I don’t have to what?”
“Do this,” I say. “You don’t have to do any of this.”
He shakes his head so now I’m actually cupping his face. It tickles the palm of my hand when he speaks now. “I know that,” he says.
I’m not really sure what else I’m supposed to say, so I just spend the next minute staring at him and feeling him against me. And while I’m kind of turned on because I’m touching him and he’s John, I’m also feeling kind of, I don’t know, content.
Just lying here all curled up, staring at him and wanting the moment to never end.
THE LIGHT wakes me up.
I think it’s really early because the windows are all fogged up, but the room I’m in is really loud and it is screaming into my eyes. It takes me a little too long to remember where I am. John’s coat is still draped around me.
I must have fallen asleep, but I can’t remember when. I think, after I was done gazing into his eyes, which probably took forever, John kind of mumbled an excuse and disappeared into a different room. I followed him with my gaze, but I was completely unable to actually follow him, even though I did consider it.
“Hey,” John says. He’s on the floor, holding an open book, though it doesn’t look like he’s reading it. “Are you hungry?”
I shake my head, which hurts. “Just, like, hungover and—”
He speaks at the same time I do. “I thought about cooking you something, but I don’t know what you—”
I sit up and sigh, swallow and move his coat so that it’s next to me instead of on top of me. My throat hurts and I feel absolutely terrible. My heart is going so fast and I’m feeling a bit dizzy. “You don’t have to make me breakfast.”
“Well, I wouldn’t know how to make you breakfast,” he replies, laughing. “I mean, I thought about it, but I don’t know if bread is an animal by-product.”
I sit up and stretch. My limbs and my head hurt and I’m not really in the mood for his jokes. It’s not like anything happened, but it still feels awkward, like I’ve overstayed my welcome after a one-night stand. But I’m already here and my mouth is so dry. “Do you have any coffee?”
“I have tea,” he says.
“Tea’s good,” I reply. “Just tea.”
“Alright,” he says, stands up, and walks into the kitchen.
It takes what seems like a long time, though it’s probably only a few minutes, before my eyes actually adjust to the light and I’m looking around his place again. The coffee table is covered in tins and tobacco and ash. I must have missed the ashtray a lot last night. Groaning, I stand up and stretch again.
John walks out of the kitchen and hands me a cup of tea in a mug that looks like it came straight from his grandmother’s cupboard.
“Thanks,” I say. I need to drink this and get out of here, but it’s too hot, so I end up taking a tiny sip and then sitting back down.
“So,” John says. “What do you want to do today?”
“What?”
He rolls his eyes and crosses his arms. “What do you want to do today?”
“I, I think I need to go home,” I say.
He nods and his fingers dig into his skin. Suddenly I feel really, really bad. He did put up with me being incredibly stoned and sleeping at his place, and he even tried to feed me. He didn’t have to do any of those things. Surely I owe him my time at least. It’s not like I’ve done anything wrong anyway. Plus Levi is being such a cock, I don’t think I really owe him anything.
I smile at John. “What do you have in mind?”
His face lights up immediately. Oh God, maybe this was a bad idea. I don’t want to lead him on, I just don’t want to be a dick to him. I still—I mean, it’s not like Levi and I broke up or anything.
He did say to call him.
“What about a film?”
“Like, a date?”
As soon as I say it, I know I shouldn’t have. I’m surprised he’s not actually making permanent marks on his skin the way his fingers are digging into his arms.
He notices me staring and tries his best to relax his grip, but I don’t think it really works. His face kind of changes and he looks a bit bored when he finally speaks.
His eyes narrow. “Like a film.”
“Okay, okay,” I say. “A film, then. What are you in the mood for?”
He smiles again and drops his arms to his sides. “What about The Fly? I’ve been looking forward to seeing that.”
“There’s a remake? Who is in it?”
“Yeah, it’s a remake,” he says.
“Oh,” I say. “I wish they’d stop making remakes. The original was so good.”
He nods. “Did you see it?”
“Hasn’t everyone seen the original?”
He shakes his head and smiles. “I haven’t. I didn’t know you were into films.”
“Are you kidding? If it were up to me, I’d do nothing but watch movies all day, every day,” I say. “It’s what I’m going to school for. Like maybe I’ll be able to make my own films someday. What about you? What’s your favorite movie?”
He cocks his head and closes his eyes, making this noise that shouldn’t sound sexual but totally does. I have to look away from him. “I don’t know. That’s a hard question, I like loads of movies. I think Chinatown probably. I’m not really into films, though.”
“But you just—”
“It’s better than meeting my friends,” he says.
I don’t really know what to say to that, so I just nod and fish my phone out of my pocket. “What’s your Wi-Fi password? My phone has been super fucky lately.”
“My what password?”
“Your Wi-Fi password,” I say. “I get no data here.”
He’s standing next to me now, even though I don’t notice him walking up to me. Without asking me if it’s okay, he yanks my phone out of my hands while I’m fumbling with it. I look at him and frown. “You don’t snatch phones out of people’s hands, John.”
I think he may have the decency to look at least a little embarrassed at being told off, but he’s too fascinated by my phone. It’s not even a nice phone. It’s just a standard iPhone. Not even a new iPhone.
“This is a phone?”
“No,” I say. “It’s a spaceship.”
He looks at me for a second with wide eyes and starts tapping the phone with his fingers. He’s not very technologically adept, and I’m not sure exactly what he’s trying to do.
“Put your number in there for me,” I say. I mean, I may as well take advantage of the opportunity, right?
“How?”
That’s odd. I grab the phone out of his hands, quite gently, and look up at him. “So what is it?”
He gives me a number still staring at my phone.
“That can’t be right,” I say. “It’s too short. Look, if you didn’t want to give your number—”
John shrugs. “That’s it. You can look me up on the phone book if you don’t believe me,” he says. “Anyway, are you sure that’s a phone?”
“John,” I say and bite my lower lip. “What else would it be?”
I’M NOT exactly sure what happens, but I know that it isn’t great, because ten minutes after I ask for John’s number, he’s telling me he has to meet some friends and we can catch a film next weekend.
I asked him if he was going to introduce me, jokingly, but he just looked at me and shook his head, leaving me wondering exactly what I had done wrong.
He was polite about pushing me out of his flat, but that is exactly what he did.
My stomach is in a tight knot as I make my way to the metro station. I don’t really understand what happened last night, but I know it was something. And if it was something, I’m going to have to talk to Levi about it. I just hope he isn’t at my place. He rarely uses the key I gave him, but with Ziggy staying at her partners’ place for the week, he’s been taking full advantage of it lately. Well, until we fought.
I’m not going to call him.
I deserve an apology at the very least. If he hadn’t been such a dick, John would’ve never invited me out for a drink and nothing would’ve have happened. Really this is all on him.
I know we need to have a conversation, but I’m not going to be the one to initiate it.
Because I deserve an apology, I think, despite what’s just happened with John. If I had pushed Levi to do something like this…. But that would never happen. I wouldn’t do that to him.
I check my phone, but I have no signal. Maybe he hasn’t gotten in touch with me at all. Maybe he does expect me to call him.
I think about calling John for a second before I shove my phone back into my pocket.