All my sick is in my stomach

I feel like an imposter, that at any moment you’ll realise I’m not like the others; that you’ll turn me away, ask me to leave. I mean, if you could see inside me; I don’t think you’d have me here.

But you do nothing; you just stand in front of us all, in your home, lunging and dancing, dipping and bobbing to the music, to the lyrical rhapsody of your own well chosen, carefully crafted sentences.

I watch your hair flick in the window, the way you smile at me over your shoulder; your feet, your fingertips. I watch your lips as they curl around the words that warm the room.

And the sense of unease rises. It’ll be moments before I’m dragged outside and put to the guillotine.

But it doesn’t happen and one by one everybody leaves. They thank you for a wonderful dinner, they thank you for the drinks, they apologise for the noise, they leave.

Then it’s just us. You sat on the corner of the sofa, legs crossed looking at me with an intense yet comforting smile. Your teeth show, and much like everything else I’ve seen of you, they’re perfect.

You pat the seat next to you so I cautiously walk over, anxious of my footsteps, conscious of my breathing. I focus too hard and it’s all I can think about, not an ideal distraction.

You take my hand, squeeze it hard.

We’d met maybe a month before. Friends of friends. We were in a bar and you sat next to me but had your body turned away the whole time, engaging with most everyone but me.

You can imagine my surprise when on our second meeting you seemed significantly more engaged with me, that you were interested in what I had to say, what I wanted to say, what I wanted to ask. You had just left your partner, asked me to punch you in the face. You demanded, pointed at your cheek, annoyed that I wouldn’t. I kissed it instead.

The third time came as a surprise, that you wanted to hang out just us two. So we sat on the beach, relaxed; spoke about books and Carver and which soliloquy in Hamlet is the best.

And now here we are, alone in your living room, the music still playing, half empty bottles dotted around the floor like delicious landmines.

You’ll ask if I want to watch a film, and we do; engage with it half-heartedly before slipping upstairs, to your bedroom.

And here we sit, pawing over your record collection, screaming about great music. Any second, I think to myself, any second you’ll pull away the blanket and the façade will be over. You’ll send me packing.

I watch as you stand, glide over to a table and pick up a piece of paper and an eyeliner pencil, hurriedly scribbling songs you need me to hear.

And to share something like that? Well, the pleasure is mine. But, to tell the truth, all my sick is in my stomach; just ready to launch.

We walk down the stairs, make tea and then your mind sparks alive! You tell me, you implore me to come with you; to roll cigarettes and go and watch the sunrise. So we do. We trudge over dewy grass, over the bridge; the streaming water loud enough to knock any hint of sleep from my anxious mind. Maybe you’ll drown me? The area’s so quiet I think you’d get away with it.

But we sit, on this boulder misplaced in this field and watch the sun ascend and you turn to me, and it’s because of what you’re about to say that’ll make all my terror dissipate, make my sick dissolve, my fears evaporate.

I’ll say yes. I’ll say yes and we’ll walk to the local village for breakfast.