November

The little trees were piled like bodies at the side of the pavement, their fine branches reaching over the iron fence. Michael was close enough to peer down into the rough thicket formed by the brown and withering needles.

The warm smell of pine bled into the air and made him think of Christmas, sitting in the back seat on the way home from B&Q, with dull orange streetlight bathing a tree small enough to balance upon the wooden cabinet in the living room. One short-tempered January morning, his dad, whose new socks were shot through with needles, placed an embargo on real trees – they had been decorating the same plastic imitation every year since.

It was just past 4.30 when he reached the café on Great Western Road. He knew Sophie wouldn’t be there yet – she had texted her train was late – so he went into the bookshop next door. He drew his eyes along the shelves – American History, True Crime, Classics. Thumbing through a biography of Thomas Jefferson made him feel he knew far less than he should do at his age; his chest tightened slightly. At the same moment, the wetness which had been seeping through the small gash at his right heel pricked him. His phone buzzed in his pocket.

I’m outside.

He shimmied the book back into its place on the shelf, not without a little difficulty, and left the shop. As he went out, a nervousness rang through him with the rusted bell above the door.

At the door of the café, a tall couple were smoking cigarettes and remarking critically upon the shop’s fascia: a kind of seaweed green with thick, black lettering. Behind them, Sophie was scrolling on her phone, an umbrella hooked around her forearm. The tip of her nose was pink with the cold.

Alright?

Jesus, you couldn’t have texted me you were here, no?

Didn’t want to give you a chance to run, did I?

That’s a fine way to introduce yourself in public, she said, glancing over him towards the inspecting couple.

They’re a little preoccupied to notice, I think.

Side by side, they stood in the queue, consulting the blackboards. Sophie ordered a latte with hazelnut milk and whipped cream, untying her scarf as she spoke to the barista. Michael, who didn’t like coffee, asked for a Diet Coke and a pastry. His order provoked from Sophie a slender smile which flashed her teeth.

They took a table for two at the back of the café beside a mannerly group of students practising some sort of origami. Sophie kept one eye out for her order being called.

Just start eating – I’m not having anything.

Michael ignored this request, and the subsequent go on, as politely as he could. He no longer noticed the clammy moisture in his sock.

How was your day? he asked.

It was ok. I spent all of lunchtime and half an hour after class helping out on fashion show stuff. That’s why I was late – that and the fucking train.

I thought it was the Business Ed class that organised all that?

It is, but they’ve a small class this year and they’re behind. Smoir asked some of the captains to help.

Smoir – or, rather, Mrs Sharon Moir – was a Business Ed teacher and the head of sixth year. A menace to the entire school, she famously kept in reserve a certain good grace for the eight school captains, all of whom she doted on – in return, no small amount of extra-curricular activity was expected.

You knew fine what you were getting into.

I did – doesn’t mean I can’t complain.

Don’t need to tell me.

She sneered. Oh, that’s very funny. You were hardly a rebel yourself; I just missed the bin.

Michael smiled into his lap. The year before, partly from the encouragement of his teachers but mostly from a vague and terminal sense of pride, he had prepared a school captain’s application, only to scrunch it into a neat ball and leave it in a waste paper bin beside the submissions tray. The story was better known than he’d have liked.

I saw sense in time, that’s all.

Well, my eyesight’s not as good as yours, she said, tapping the pointed corner of her tortoiseshell glasses.

Michael took a sip of his Coke. It’ll count in the end for you, all that toeragging after her – the uni’s paw over that kind of stuff.

Right; what’ve I told you about sounding like my mother?

Quite coincidentally, the mention of her mother was followed immediately by the calling of Sophie’s name from the bar. She walked over to the counter to collect her coffee, which she carried to an adjoining table. Between the tips of two fingernails, she tore open a sachet of sugar and poured it into the coffee.

As she stirred, she looked over her shoulder to Michael, who had been joined at the table by a frail-looking old man.

Don’t worry about him, said the barista, who had seen her confusion; he just comes in to be out the cold.

That’s lovely of you to let him.

She walked gingerly back to the table, not wanting to scare the man off. When he saw her hovering behind Michael – who had hardly said a word – he stood up dutifully, beaming, and offered the chair.

I’m sorry, dear girl, let me get out of your road.

Don’t worry, my love – join us if you’d like.

Don’t be silly, don’t be silly. He spoke with a queer eloquence, formed through the thick strokes of an east-end accent. You’re a fine fair beauty, if you don’t mind my saying so.

You’re a sweetheart, said Sophie, smiling purely from her cheeks and eyelashes.

Content, the man shuffled off to another corner of the café. Sophie was amused to find Michael’s face flushed with a vicious red.

Your friend was lovely.

He was good company – seemed more interested in you though.

You didn’t get any compliments, no?

Not quite. He told me that if I didn’t marry you tomorrow, he would.

He’s not wrong.

Michael began to tear delicate strips off the pastry and throw them into his mouth. He was conscious of the ease he felt in her company compared to other people’s. She was a pool into which he could step and let himself float weightlessly. The gratitude to and for her which accompanied this feeling embarrassed and terrified him.

Was uni ok?

Fine, yeah. The lecturer was giving us some hints on what’s gonna be in the exam paper.

That was good of him?

It was. Probably self-preservation, more than anything. There’d have been a lynch mob after him if he didn’t.

They’re that intense, are they?

Future litigators – it comes with the territory.

And how do you feel about them?

The exams? She nodded. Fine, I suppose. I should be studying more than I am.

It’s not like you need to.

He gave a sharp exhale. Nice I don’t need to worry about you sounding like my mother.

Is that a complaint? said Sophie, grinning over a thick, white swirl of cream.

Obviously.

They relaxed in each other’s humour and let silence spread out between them like a cool sheet of linen. Sophie examined the tall, sleek latte glass, mottled by islands of tawny foam, which she found beautiful, if a little pretentious. She had a sympathetic sense of beauty, willing to discern and admire the naked physicality of the world around her which had been abstracted by affectation. This was how she presently observed Michael, who had begun to pick at the ring pull of his Coke can, now empty, and fashioned a thin metallic rhythm. She followed the square, elegant line of his jaw up towards his eyes. In these moments, she was fixated by his quiet movements of expression, when he was allowed to think inwardly to himself, and concentration flowed across his face.

The cafe was busier now, and noisier. Office workers swelled around the bar, conducting one final clamour before retiring for the evening. The bitter scent of coffee strangled the air. Fine raindrops clung to the cafe window. Michael noticed the excitement of the origami group, who had succeeded in creating a bank of red swans. Closely, he followed the pairs of fluttering wings.

Did you mean what you said?

Hmm? muttered Michael, returning his eyes to Sophie. Her head was bowed towards her hands clasped on her lap.

Last night. Did you mean what you said?

He felt the question in the tips of his fingers. He had meant it – it hadn’t occurred to him that she might have doubted it. It had formulated itself in his mind as an observed and verifiable fact, the way a baby configures the laws of gravity. Guilt swarmed his body.

I did. He tried to focus all sincerity into his voice but wasn’t sure if he managed it. His cheeks flushed red again. Of course I did.

The words seemed to fall on her like rain. She was looking off to her left, towards the darkening window, but smiling at him from the smooth corners of her eyes like grey stones set in wet sand.

Ok, she said. Thank you. She was scared to look back at him, even for a second, in case the feeling left, in case the music stopped. She began to fish for the last drops of cream with the long teaspoon. What Michael did next surprised them both. He slid the plate with the rest of his pastry over to her and said, Do you want that?

Don’t be so bloody polite, she said, laughing still a little unevenly.

Suit yourself.

Grinning like a puppy, he grabbed the leftovers and chewed them with cartoonish exaggeration. They finished up, giggling as they sidled past the origami group, whose afternoon had descended into a barbed debate about the dropping of the atomic bomb.

When they reached the station, it was announced on the tannoy that someone had fallen on the line between Croy and Larbert and that all the trains were cancelled, so they took the bus home and rode on the top deck, her head on his shoulder, smiling all the way at the dog across the aisle who sat upright on his seat like a human being.

…

She waits a moment before opening the door, letting the steam cloud her body. Wrapping a towel neatly around herself, she grabs her phone and walks into the hallway. The cold pricks her, and she moves silently, not to wake her father, who is asleep in the guest bedroom. She drifts up the stairs with a deft poise which is hereditary, wincing at the odd, unavoidable creak. On the landing, a slit in the door tells that her mother is also asleep, a mess of pages and a pen littered on her lap.

Her bedroom is pleasantly cool with a scent of patchouli and vanilla. She throws her phone onto the bed. In the mirror she brushes the golden sheet of her hair over one shoulder and smooths a perfumed skin cream into the pink of her cheeks. For a moment, she massages her sinuses in tight circles, closing her eyes as she does so. When she opens them, she notices the phone light up.

She moves to the bed, perching on the side with one leg folded under her body. She feels the smooth wax of her shins which she shaved in the shower. There are two slim, blue bubbles on the phone screen, which she reads one after the other:

You know

I think I’m in love with you

She leaves the phone aside and lies back on the bed. She tries bluntly to remember the thoughts she had a moment ago, which are now scattered around the room like dandelion seeds. She feels like a body of flesh and blood, full not of nothing but of something more than herself. She isn’t sure if she will ever believe it, but that doesn’t matter for now.