Spring*

I am in the kitchen now, the phone on speaker as I get myself a drink. There’s a can of beer and week-old takeout in the fridge. I crack open the can, hoping the satisfying pop-then-hiss goes unnoticed. It does. She talks and I drink.

 

“Are you listening to me?”

 

I allow myself the satisfaction of two heavy gulps. They echo loud enough in my ears that I don’t hear the annoying shrill her voice has adopted. The beer is cold and bitter and tastes like victory.

 

“I’m listening, Jess,” I tell her. I’m not. I fish a word out of her prattle.

 

“Your coworker is a bitch. You won’t believe what she did the other day. No, really—,” and off she goes again.

 

I log onto Facebook. The first post on my timeline is a video of a sneezing cat. It has twelve thousand likes. Why am I on Facebook? I hit refresh. I have a friend request, bright and red and juicy. It’s the girl I met on the train. I’d helped her with her bags and made a rubbish joke about luggage. She’d laughed. God knows why. I remember liking the sound. I told her my name and she curled her foreign tongue around it. I stared at her mouth after that till she bounded off at her stop.

 

“Tom.” A distant call, muffled. “Tom.”

 

Shit. I’ve been silent for too long.

 

“You know what I think, Tom? I think you’re not listening to a word I’ve said.”

 

“Jess,” I go. The girl, Claudia, is pretty. A warm kind of pretty that you want to wake up next to and indulge in before your alarm clock blares. She is smiling with her eyes in her profile photo. “I’m tired. Don’t start this.”

 

It’s the wrong thing to say. I don’t think I care. Claudia likes The Strokes. She posts statuses in French that I paste into Google translate. She curses in them a lot. Merde. Merde. I think I’m smiling.

 

“What does that mean?” She starts this.

 

“Nothing,” I tell her.

 

“Do you love me? Tom, do you hear me? Tell me. Tom. Do you love me?”

 

“I love you,” I go, but it lacks conviction. It sounds tired. I’m tired. I’m met with silence and say, “I love you, Jess.”

 

There. The trick is to sound breathless, sincere. I can tell she believes me. I believe me. I accept Claudia’s request.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

About haringeyunchained

Haringey Unchained is a collective of students aiming to show case the creative talent of Haringey Sixth Form College in Tottenham, London. We think that through the promotion of our creative thoughts, we can educate our community, bringing to the foreground the critical and creative consciousness of a vibrant school in a deprived part of London. We are endeavouring to provide this blog as a platform for our community, giving the space to those whose work otherwise might not be seen or read. Being that the cuffs are off, we are able to express through our photography, art, short fiction and poetry, what’s really on our minds. We are free.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s