Jemmia emerged out of the tube station and turned right. She was wearing red shoes, which, as she stepped, looked like dripping drops of blood. A young man was waiting for her. She had first met the young man three years earlier. She was nineteen then, twenty-two now. They had become friends, in a way. The first day they had kissed strange kisses. Jemmia kissed in short bursts, like a small child. The young man had found that both frustrating and very sad. It was as though no one had ever kissed her properly, with feeling, and so she pecked at his face like a cautious bird. ‘I knew you would be a good kisser,’ is what she had told him, after. That had made him sad too.

In the second or third pub a woman had leaned over the back of the seat in front, and said ‘your girlfriend is pretty,’ and then asked him for a cigarette. Everything made him sad that day. The woman had looked like the kind of person who would force a flier into your hand out on the street, and the walls of the pub had been a dull yellow, like urine-stained bathroom tiles.

Between pubs they had walked awkwardly, not quite in step, so that the young man had to almost turn around to talk to her. They had not held hands. It had not occurred to either of them. In the wind his conversation had streamed past her shoulders, like her hair. She seemed content, he had thought, and that had made him sadder still. In pub after pub he had placed his hand high up her thigh. She had expected this, or something like it. In fact, she had braced herself for more, but that had not materialised. He had come so far and then retreated, like a housecat nosing a gap in a window only to be scared off by the cold. She had braced herself, but wanted more. It was expected, and therefore necessary. Her disappointment made her stare. Her eyes were like polished snooker balls; the only thing he could see in them was his own reflection.

Somehow night had fallen, not with the giddiness of a drunken fool, but with the solemn slowness of a weary working man getting into bed at the end of a long shift. In the last pub, music blared and the lights flashed like cat claws. ‘You’ve never flirted with me,’ Jemmia had said. That had been her invitation. ‘I have,’ he had lied, ‘but maybe I haven’t been obvious enough about it.’ They had reached an understanding, and so she had smiled, and reapplied her buttery lipstick.

‘It’s my birthday tomorrow,’ she had said when he had asked her to spend the night with him. ‘My dad will be upset if I don’t come home.’ Neither remembered suggesting a hotel, although the young man would take credit for it whenever he shared the story. That story, his story, bore little similarity with the actual events. Over time, he had replaced and reimagined so much that his memory of the night with Jemmia was no more real to him than a dream.

Jemmia slowed as she approached the young man. He took a step forward, and then stopped. She hugged him loosely and, because she was wearing her hair up, he felt the small stray hairs at the back of her neck. Six months ago Jemmia had called him and told him that she was in an institution. He had never asked how or why. On the street, she kissed him on the mouth, a real kiss, not like before, and he was aware that this would have made him sad too, at one time, but he could no longer conjure up those feelings. They were like something he had bought rashly at auction, and which he had now locked away somewhere in order to not be reminded of his foolishness.


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