How to Find Friends in London

Yet.

My skin looks oiled. Not oily. There's always this sheen to it that catches in low lighting, the dim glow of half burnt rollies and the sort of strange light that is produced by the heavy bass of a band.

"Do you remember him?"

I didn't have to ask who.

"No."

"Don't you think that should worry you by now?"

"Yes."

Joyjoy looked at my anxiously, her blue skin glowing like fire. She clutched at my hand, I could feel her cold pulse thrumming against my arm. She'd hide our clasped hands with our body, the night would hide the rest. Afraid of showing any vulnerability. Like the first time we met, when her face was too round, but her eyes were bright fire. Defiant and angry and smart. I was scared of her, but she latched onto me. How long had it been since then? 6 years? She still hadn't let go.

No one knew the depths we had plundered. Secrets shared, I don't think she knew how scared of her I was. I told her everything in my earnest heart. Mum's voice would chime in my head,

'No point in making friends. Family is all you have."

But Joyjoy was all I had. And I was all Joyjoy had. Her hand began to tremble in mine.

"When was the last time you had your-"

"Ssshutup." She hissed, words pissing out of her mouth. I shook my head, grasped her around her tiny waist. She was tiny but she never made me feel large. We always fit together somehow, like when we lay in the grass and she'd be swathed in layers of silk and cotton. I'd be next to her wearing little and neither of us cared how green our bottoms got, how stained our fingers had become.

The Hammersmith bar was unbearable at 2 am. We steered ourselves out and into the cool air. Shadows stirred and rain plinked audibly from beneath canopies.

"I love how orange the night is."

Joyjoy twisted her face into a smile, her rosebud lips dark and smudged and she said,

"Why?"

"The roads are so black and the orange just- perfects it. Everything looks wet and slick and smells so-"

"Right." Breathed Joyjoy.

She began shrinking into herself more. I shook myself away from the orange patches of rainy light. Focused on her. I could see how I was swimming before her.

"I think it was premature, Joy." My voice was measured and breathy, filled with worry and caution. I could tell she could hear it in me.

Joyjoy pushed herself upright.

"Of course not." It was feigned confidence.

"Let's get you home."

When she didn't protest my heart jumped into my throat and it pulsated a tattoo there. It felt angry and hot. Joyjoy was like a whole green chilli; docile and innocent and assuming until you bit into her and then she was all fire, and you'd struggle to spit her out. You'd be desperate to quench the fire, but even when she was smouldering you'd never quite forget the fire. You'd like it too, like the way she burnt you.

I looked at my sputtering ember. She was coming down hard and I felt helpless. Maybe I resented deep down having to constantly stoke her fire. How she'd forget me when she was happy. But I couldn't. I couldn't really.

"Joy."

"Lily." She called me Lily, she was the only one who did. The only one I allowed.

"Here."

"Here."

There were a few louts out, wandering and making hazy circles in the corner of my eyes. Feral, drunk, leering. I hated London at night, on my own. Everything was a threat, there was nothing romantic and special or mysterious.

London was like that, romanticised and mythologised- it was the top of mount Olympus. But you'd climb the summit and see it was nothing. Just overly self aware adults, drunks and immigrants. Competing taxi cab fares and suffocating trains, everything was too fucking expensive. Everyone was off their head. No one was genuine. Or honest.

God. I loved it.

I spied a nearby pub, the shadows infrequent behind amber windows. I led Joyjoy up the steps and grasped the handle, pushing the door open.

No drunken patrons, or a slovenly barkeeper, no vinegar in the air. No pub. A man in his study, instead. He was bent over a book and jerked his head up.

He looked at me with the sort of pale eyes no one covets, just watery tea coloured eyes, his mouth twisting in the way mine would when I'd struggle not to laugh when I was 8 during maghrib salah, watching the bobbing heads of Salim and Ruqayyah pull faces at me. The trying not to smile sort of twisted dance your mouth did, knowing that once that smile broke free you were giving up the fact that you knew. You knew it was all just a joke, really.

Pale eyes looked at me like that.

He stood then, and held the door open, leant forward, until our noses met. Joyjoy lolled on my shoulder.

He began to close the door and said to me,

"Not yet."

The door shut in my face. Joyjoy's fingers began to dig into my back, her eyes were very far away. I opened the door again, and the sloppy silent drunks greeted me.

We stepped inside, sat on the very real seats. I called a black cab, the app on my screen pinging as it took my money. No interaction. No humanity. Just me and Joyjoy and the memory of "not yet".

Yet.

And my mouth worked itself away from a smile.