Knots

My first real attempt at writing since school, done to impress a girl. I'm not sure it worked.

The sunlight streaming in through the gap in the curtains pries my eyes open slowly. Blinded by glaring colours I blink some times as overnight crust breaks and falls down my face. I’ll rub it off in a minute but for now I must be still; my head is heavy. I’d forgotten the pleasantly unpleasant sense of inertia that comes with waking in a strange room. I recognise the door I came through, the chair over which my clothes are strewn, the window I smoked at while she slept. But in the sudden, harsh daylight I can notice all the details overlooked in last night’s fervour. On the floor she keeps an impressive stack of books: Tolstoy, Nietzsche, Proust—authors whose works I’ve had great intentions of reading and in some cases gone so far as to watch whole summaries of—along with other European-sounding names I’ve probably heard mentioned in podcasts or had earnestly extolled to me by a stranger over the last few crumbs of cocaine at some nightmarish afters I’d rather have forgotten. There's a wooden chest of drawers facing the bed adorned with candles, polaroids and other trinkets. To the right of the drawers is a desk with a laptop, some papers, and a reading lamp. To the left of the bed are a clothes rail and some potted plants along a low windowsill. Although part of me knows it all couldn’t really be more clichéd, I find myself intimidated by the room. The pretty, smiling faces captured on nights out and cultured weekend jaunts; the perfectly symmetrical row of ritzy-looking vintage garments hanging along the rail; the tasteful sensibility with which each object and bit of furniture is arranged, each considered purchase made and every complimentary colour chosen. All of it seems to signal a purposeful existence being led, that here resides a person thriving in accordance with some coherent idea—imagined or otherwise—of who they are.

Last night was a welcome relief, back in the Grand Social with Ronan banging heads and spilling pints to the rhythm of moppy-headed South Dublin pretenders bashing their guitars and fiddling with expensive pedalboards. During a few blissful moments reality fell away and I could almost feel the joy and hope and urgency of those days when we still believed in the glittery promise of a Friday night on the town, when a long walk home with dust in your wallet and rainwater in your shoes felt like sacred pilgrimage rather than a tragic scene from some otherwise shit film. It must have been during one of those moments—sweat pumping as I basked in feedback and distortion, reprieved from thoughts of my stiff dancing and shiny, dishevelled appearance—that she approached me and gestured to the cigarette I was rolling.

'Could I have one please?'

Her face was round and pretty with a fair complexion and short, curtained mousy brown hair. She wore a leather jacket over a long patterned dress that clung to the womanly parts of her figure. Her eyes—blue, wide and playful—sat a few inches below mine despite her heeled boots. I fumbled to finish my cigarette and led her outside where I rolled her another as we went through the formalities. She was an actress from Galway studying at the Lir and lived in a house share in Stoneybatter. Her friend Lily was dating the opening act’s bass player and had dragged her along for the evening. She seemed embarrassed to admit she didn't have a job, presumably bankrolled by her parents. I debated whether or not to light her cigarette; a septum piercing suggested she might not appreciate such chivalry. Just as I shaped to hand her the lighter she produced her own with a smirk. She began asking questions; through gnawing fear I did my best to appear convinced by my own answers:

‘Working hospitality while I figure my shit out, though I'm between jobs right now.'

'I’ll probably study once I decide which of my many talents to pursue.'

'Staying in the nest for the moment, sure there's no one else to look after the dogs.'

She seemed sharp enough to see through my half-truths. Relieved by the absence of judgement in her eyes I relaxed a little and asked about the theatre, confessing my ignorance. She launched into an animated sermon on playwrights, act structures and Edinburgh Fringe ambitions; she would be starring as 'Oestrogen' in a feminist reinterpretation of 'Waiting for Godot' running in Smock Alley Theatre in May. Even as she bemoaned rehearsal schedules and petty crew politics I was completely taken by her passion, and evident lack of ego.

When Lily appeared I suggested we make our way back inside to find Ronan and catch the end of the gig. We stopped en route for a round of Guinness and I thanked God when my card wasn’t declined. The final act were a noisy, 4-piece garage rock outfit who more than lived up to their billing. The crowd heaved as we thrashed our heads and bodies—her moves considerably more graceful than mine—and exchanged smiles and rushed words between songs. Ronan dutifully handled the task of keeping Lily entertained. Quick remarks flowed from my tongue and with each laugh elicited from her I felt my face soften until it seemed to melt into nothingness and I fought to suppress childlike gapes.

The band eventually bowed off stage to rapturous applause. The girls left to find Lily’s date and powder their noses. New Wave tunes played over the PA at a volume that let you know it was probably time to start looking for your jacket. Ronan had a bus to catch. We hugged; I felt guilty for not walking with him. Alone I waited and sipped my pint, checking my phone and occasionally thinking the better of giving my hips a twist. Ten minutes passed. Were they gone? I looked down to the sticky floor and shifted between increasingly uncomfortable stances. Had I completely misread the situation? My chest tightened and I could suddenly feel each bead of sweat trickling down through the asymmetric contours of my face. They were probably backstage, regaling the musicians with tales of the jittery creep they were hiding from. I was sure everyone in the room was watching me, noticing how awkward and pathetic I looked. Fuck it. I ran for a smoke.

Hunched over in a dark corner, clumsily spilling tobacco and trying to control my breath, I planned my exit. I had a lonely bus ride home to look forward to–a good opportunity to conduct the inevitable postmortem of my evening’s behaviour. The usual wisdom I’d cling to, that it’s better to be ‘amongst it’, that the chance of rejection is necessary for human connection to mean anything, wasn’t helping much; it never really does. A few times the beer garden door swung open and I peered over hopefully as smiling strangers piled through. When a particularly attractive woman caught me looking and returned a scowl I decided I’d endured enough humiliation. I composed myself as best I could and just as I stood to leave a familiar, soft voice rang through the beer garden. I shot around and there she was, standing alone in the doorway talking on the phone, more beautiful than I’d allowed myself remember. Despite having waited for exactly this moment I was terrified, still quite sure that her disappearance had been deliberate. I caught her eye and she seemed to smile. I took a deep breath and approached her; fortune favours the brave. She hung up the phone and addressed me with mock indignation:

‘Where the fuck did you go?’

*

I turn slowly now to face her and as the duvet shifts I catch a glimpse of her round, pink nipple. I quickly cover her. My movements feel disconnected. Replaying last night's events I know they couldn’t possibly hold the same weight in her mind. Watching her—eyes closed peacefully, breath interrupted every so often by gentle whimpers—I don’t feel close to her. A violent shudder passes through me as I remember the silence that followed a poorly timed joke on the walk home. I crave her touch but am weary of waking her; she had mentioned needing rest before rehearsals and I am all too conscious of my dry, blotched skin and morning breath. I could return after freshening up in the bathroom, but to do so would be to challenge the fragile intimacy of this moment, this ambiguous entanglement of two unclothed strangers. I’ll leave my number on her desk, though maybe I shouldn't; forgetting her existence would surely be easier than the hopes and doubts and hypotheticals and catastrophes that will plague me once this dream ends. Pain is better self-inflicted, much safer that way. I hear someone start to hoover downstairs. I hope I’ll be able to slip out without their notice, that they might not see me—in this state—for whatever it is that I truly am. I check the time: just past twelve. Ronan will be almost back in Berlin by now. Unsure of what to do or where I might go, I decide to lie still a little longer. My head is heavy.