The Quiet Man

Nice

It wouldn’t have changed anything, would it? If I had asked. If I’d kissed you while I still could. I’d still wake up at two in the morning and hear you playing your violin, you’d still struggle with your addictions. That wouldn’t change. You’d still keep human livers in the fridge, no good reason not to. You’d still forget me in Brixton and get a cab to yourself so that I wouldn’t talk, because none of that was personal. I think you might have loved me too. You might have. I’m not sure. I can’t ever be sure.

You’re gone, so it doesn’t matter anymore. There is no answer left for me to find. You wouldn’t have told anyone. You probably wouldn’t have ever told me, even if it were true. It’s a story no one’s meant to know. You kept your secrets well.

Maybe it’s just a crush; a crush on the memory of you. All the best memories I have are all bound up in you, making it so easy to feel these things. A crush: that’s normal.

I need a girlfriend. I need to blot you out. I’m sorry, but I do. That’s terrible, isn’t it. That’s progress, that’s moving on. Ella would approve. I know how to have a girlfriend, I do. You remember. I was good at it.

You were terrible at it. The boring one told you so. Remember?

Did you forget their names on purpose? Things that don’t matter to you: the fact that the earth rotates around the sun, and the names of the women I date. Why was that? Did you think they had no impact on your life, or were you trying to make some kind of a statement? Was that you being catty? Were you jealous? Did you always know my girlfriends would be transient, and that you would be my only constant, so there was no point remembering them? That’s what happened, in the end.

This needs to stop, this train of thought. It doesn’t matter anymore. You’re gone, and it doesn’t matter how I felt. It doesn’t matter how you felt. We were friends. We were colleagues. You were my best friend. That’s enough. It’ll have to be. The loss of you is clouding my judgement. It’s not an identity crisis. It’s just grief.

She’s pretty.

She’s not pretty in a flashy way. She’s not a dramatic beauty that turns every head as we walk down through the cinema. It’s in that quiet sort of way, the way you know you’re going to admire for the rest of your life. The curve of her nose, the shape of her lips, her lovely skin: you could stare at her face for years and she will still be objectively pretty. I suspect she will become prettier and prettier to me as I get to know her. And then eventually no one will compare to her. I already know that.

It’s not something you can tell someone on a first date. That’s going a bit too far. We’ve only just met. I don’t know what I want to do, yet. I don’t know. I’m playing a role. Maybe eventually it will feel like real life.

She is pretty, Sherlock, and you are not. Words connote gender, and pretty is never a word I would use for you. You’re too male and too alien-looking for a word like that. Your limbs are too long, your bones are too sharp. You have that beautiful mop of hair, but it’s sitting over the most severe face I’ve ever seen. A face that only rarely smiles, and even then, mostly for its own purposes. Even if you had the features for it, the way your eyes stare right through people would take “pretty” off the list. Pretty is approachable, gentle, it’s sweet. You are none of those things. You demand an answer, and Amber isn’t even a question. She’s the opposite of you.

I suppose that’s probably deliberate. Subconsciously, at least.

She’s talking about work: a funny story, I think, about the wrong cake being delivered to a retirement party. She laughs a lot, but maybe that’s just the way she flirts. Or: she’s nervous. That’s sweet. See? A little vulnerability is appealing, it’s disarming. You were never a fan of being vulnerable. You pretend you have no vulnerabilities, but you do. I know you do. Showing a little vulnerability is like a Victorian showing a bit of ankle: it’s how we signal to each other. It’s nice. She’s nice.