The timing was off, that’s all. The timing, and my lack of courage, his lack of awareness. But then, anyone can make excuses to cover up the fact that they’ve just fucked up.
He was there, where I could find him, all day he was there, but I played a game with myself. A game of signs and ifs. I never did the thing. Not even when we were sitting face to face, talking about rubbish, about Christmas, about pastel jumpers, and whether to unplug the circuit breaker or just switch it off at the wall.
Maybe I should have taken that as a sign.
I didn’t even say goodbye properly that night. I left, and rang him later. It was his answerphone. I left a pointless message, saying badly the things I’d intended to say two hours, three hours, four hours earlier. Counting on it coming across as charmingly nervous, and not psychotic.
Fifty two hours and forty minutes later, I was still waiting for him to respond. Every morse code beep from the blesséd phone turned out to be someone else. Not their fault, they couldn’t help not being him, but still I blamed them, my lack of enthusiasm clear.
Two hundred and forty hours later, in another country, in another year, I got the headmaster’s summons by text. Businesslike, perfunctory, wanting to draw the line. Two hundred and thirty nine hours 59 minutes too late for me not to expect it. Even so, I didn’t expect it.
I was early for the requested meeting. He was earlier. His smile was tight. I stood waiting for the reprimand, the soft look of disappointment. He told me to sit down while he waited to be served. So I did, painstakingly removing my coat, straightening my hair with fingers cold and nervous and trying not to shake. When he came over with our drinks, I did not even look. He took a cigarette from the packet he took from his pocket, tapping it against the table, bracing himself to speak the words in his mind. I took the longest time to jiggle and remove the teabag from the mug, pour the milk and stir. Jealously grabbed seconds of composure and avoidance.
Speech over, reason given, plea for maintenance of friendship delivered, my assurance offered, his discomfort alleviated, we settled into ninety minutes of civilised chat. Music, films and literature. Adult and measured and tight around the corners of the mouth as we laughed and smiled and said that this was okay, this was fine, this wasn’t uncomfortable or awkward.
The day after, and every day since, it has been as though nothing happened. We’re clever like that. You don’t need to unplug it. Just switch it off at the wall.
© J R Hargreaves 2006
