Is this Love? (pt.2)
Queue long in the supermarket, was lunchtime though, and it’s sunny. Supermarkets always so much busier when it’s sunny, don’t people eat when it’s cloudy? Felt bad letting Sam pay for everything, but he insisted, he’s sweet like that. How much was it though? Twenty-something, most of that was the Malibu. I said “get the cheap one,” but “no,” he said, “the cheap one’s nasty.” What else? French sticks, yes, and olives and Greek cheese, well he likes those more than I do, beef jerky too, I’ve never had it so I don’t know, but he likes that, said he hadn’t had it since he went to America with his dad years ago. Think he misses his dad sometimes, especially the way things often are between him and Jake, and the other house-mate never around, always out or working or sleeping, I’ve only spoken to him about twice. Still, he’s got me. Squeeze his arm, there. He’s smiling at me. It always seems to be sunny when I’m with you.
Yes, there’s the park, at the end of this road. The food’s in Sam’s backpack, the blanket and the Malibu are in mine. Not a blanket: the cover from the sofa in the living room. Jake was sitting on it when we got in, playing Nintendo games, but when we started making the picnic in the kitchen next door, talking and laughing, he disappeared. There were no blankets: we stole the cover. Mm. This is happiness, this, the park, the picnic in our backpacks. What else? Coca Cola to mix with the Malibu, and plastic cups to mix it in, cheese and pineapple on sticks, picked up a whole pineapple at first, that’s what gave me the idea, then saw a tin of chunks and remembered the last time I tried to carve a pineapple, that was back, when?, November, me and the girls not long moved in, like a fruity murder scene Lou had said, so I left it in the bread aisle. It looked ridiculous, all leafy and ridgy in amongst the Hovis and the Warburtons, had to laugh, and then one of the staff was looking at me so I ran away.
Oh, in the shade of this leafy tree: a chill breeze. Always sunny with Sam except here, makes me think of autumn, reminds me of those days when Sam seemed an eternity away, the girls and I walking to those parties with bare legs, or with legs as good as bare in black tights, our glittering dresses sparkling in the street-lights, thinking about Sam, looking for him in the crowd, wondering where he was if I didn’t see him, if he’d found someone else before I’d had my chance. Silly, I suppose, to fall in love so quickly, so determinedly, though I’d only known him since September, but I couldn’t help it, even in the clubs, when guys used to flirt with us, and Lou would go off with them and grind up against them on the dance-floor, and Frances, though she got picked less often, even she found a boyfriend, for a while, amongst the flashing lights and the loud music, and they asked why I hadn’t, but I didn’t dare tell them about Sam, because I wanted it so much, I was scared that saying it would make it not happen. He seemed so far away.
But then there was that afternoon in the Student Union bar, and though he hurt me without knowing, he brought me closer to him, because then I came round his house, to see Jake of course, but it was still his house. And it was that one afternoon when I was round and Jake went out, he had a lecture or something and said he’d be back in a couple of hours, and I could wait there for him if I wanted. He must’ve thought something was going to happen between us, always reaching for my hand like that, but I never lead him on. I never.
Sam was in, so of course I said I’d stay and I’d wait for Jake. Sam was reading on the sofa downstairs at the time, what was it then?, something big, Proust, I think. He said it was a classic, but then he says that about everything he reads. So I got the book I had with me out of my bag and it was Harry Potter and sat with it in the arm chair. We read together and I kept looking at him and then I asked what he was reading. “Proust,” he said, and then “Remembrance of Things Past.” “Oh,” I said. He told me it was French, and that it was a classic. Then we both read a bit more, and then I said “swap.” He said “what,” and I said again “swap, let’s swap books.” He thought about it a moment, then “okay,” he said. I started reading the first pages of Remembrance of Things Past and Proust was going on and on about going to bed early and then not being able to sleep and all the things he heard and the things he thought about, and I suppose it was interesting, in a way, but not if the whole book was like that, and the sentences were all so long you had to read them twice.
“You really like this stuff?” I asked. He said he did. I told him I thought he was just showing off. He smiled at that and said maybe he was. I still wonder sometimes if he really enjoys reading, or if he just does it because he feels he has to, because it’s good for him somehow. I asked then, “so what did you think of my book?” sitting on the sofa now so we could swap back. “Well it’s a kids’ story isn’t it?” he said. “What’s wrong with that?” I asked. “Nothing,” he said, “it was alright, easy-going anyway, perhaps I’ll read it when I’m done with this.” He tapped Proust with his fingers and I thought I saw a slight shake in his hand. He wasn’t looking at me. Then he looked up and he saw me and it felt like he was seeing me for the first time. We kissed and then. And then we had to keep it from Jake for a little while and break it to him gently.
Sam told it to him a few days later, and then they didn’t speak for about a week I think. The first time I came round after that, and Jake saw me, he stared me down all accusative. I had to look away, and then Sam glared at him, “back off,” he said with his eyes, or “don’t.” I felt bad for Jake, of course, I thought he was okay, perhaps if Sam wasn’t there, if things had been. No, maybe I just feel sorry for him; it hurts, that. Perhaps I should introduce Frances and he, maybe that would work. Oh, another shady tree: it’s warm now, but it’ll be cold later, maybe should’ve worn tights, brought a cardie, no, we won’t be out that long, and you’ll keep me warm, won’t you? Even in autumn we’ll walk through this park again, my arm around yours like now, and you’ll still keep me warm.
“Over there, by the lake?” Sam says, pointing.
I nod.
~ ~ ~
Feel the grass on my elbows through the sofa-cover, tummy full with food, sun on me, I am happy. And drowsy again, like this morning. The Malibu is warm, the Coca Cola too, though we put them in the shade to keep cool, still, another glass, to sip. The lake looks nice, dreamy.
“Do you want to go for a swim later?” I say, jokey.
I smile. I look at him, we’ve been quiet, he’s not smiling. For a moment I’m back in the Student Union bar, coming towards him and he’s not looking up from his book.
“What’s wrong?”
Now he looks, hollow smile.
“I liked the pineapple chunks with the cheese on the sticks,” he says, “I don’t think I’ve had them before.”
Mum used to make them at my childhood birthday parties, but that’s not what he’s thinking about.
“What’s wrong?”
He looks away, what’s he looking at now? Not me; some ducks.
“Is this love?” He says.
“What?” Off-guard, didn’t expect that.
“This: going to the park together, watching TV, sharing baths. Is this what love is?”
“What else would it be?”
Not now drowsy, not now dreamy and happy. I sit up.
“Don’t you love me?”
Rum and cola in my stomach all sickly now. I wait, I wait. Speak.
“Why haven’t we had sex yet?” He says like the question is choking him and he has to spit it out.
He looks down and starts playing with some grass.
“Is that what this is about?” I ask.
I can fix that, I want to, ready now, ready now, wasn’t before, but last night, this morning, ready now, haven’t left it too long without, haven’t made him lose interest, can fix it, ready now.
“No, not really,” he says
“What then?” Breathe in, not a little girl any more, just words, he’ll tell me, we’ll fix it.
He shrugs, looks away like he’s trying to read the lake.
“I think I might go home for a few days next week some time,” he says suddenly, “I miss watching films with my dad and my nan’s baking.”
“Okay,” I say.
Let him change the subject, nothing wrong. Move closer, afraid, he can see that, I don’t need to say. Hold his arm, he won’t slip away. Look at me.
“I do love you,” he says.
There, except there’s something else.
“But?” I say.
“Nothing. I love you. I want to look after you.”
I don’t know what he means, I don’t know if he knows what he means, but this is love, he reads too much, he’s close, his arm is warm and shakes as he coughs. There are no shadows across the flat lake. We’ll walk here again in the autumn.
Tags: dreams, female perspective, Fiction, James Joyce, modernist style, original fiction, part two, picnic, Raymond Carver, Relationships, sensation, short story, stream-of-conciousness
