My Mother vs. The Zombies

My mother is the sort of woman who would go out to loot the shops during the zombie apocalypse and still come back with wholemeal bread and organic juice drinks. I would always have assumed this, but I only knew it to be true now because that was exactly what had happened. Wholemeal bread, organic orange juice, blueberry breakfast bars and a six-pint of skimmed milk. If that had been me sent to do the shopping, I would’ve raided the chocolate and wine.

“There’s nothing moving out there,” Mum said, matter-of-factly, dumping the shopping on the kitchen table. “Bloodied bodies littering the road on the way to Tesco, and some burnt out cars in the road, but nothing else.”

“Does that mean we’re the only ones left alive?” my little sister Anne piped up.

“Maybe, maybe not,” said Mum. She was far too blasé about this sort of thing, but then again, I don’t think any of us had reacted quite as we expected. It wasn’t like in the films, the apocalypse. Zombies died from being stabbed in the heart, not the head, and it had started slowly and then got out of control. We’d been stuck in our house now for twenty-two days, but the whole situation had started a lot earlier. Months, years maybe. The general public weren’t informed until it was too late.

“I blame that bloody swine flu,” said Dad for the millionth time since it had all started. Dad had started with month with a crop of chocolate brown hair, but just three weeks later it had thinned and turned grey. It was the stress. Even I was going greyer and I was only nineteen. Dad believed that swine flu was to blame because he read all the wrong newspapers and then insisted on reading between the lines the entire time, establishing truisms that worked only for him.

Mum picked up a cloth and started dusting the dresser.

“Do you really think the zombies are going to care if there’s a bit of dust around?” I said, scathingly, twirling a pair of nail clippers in my fingers. I didn’t see Mum’s reaction, as I was too busy contemplating how much damage a massive pair of clippers could do to a zombie.

I snatched a blueberry breakfast bar from the table and wandered upstairs to my bedroom. The curtains were still shut and the room felt constricting. It was mid-morning but still dark in here. The lights didn’t work – electricity had been cut off about two weeks ago – and my laptop and iPhone batteries had both died for good last week, so I now had no contact at all. I didn’t imagine I was missing much, as Twitter had died along with the humans and there was no one left to poke me on Facebook. At least, I assumed not. We didn’t know how many others were left.

I’d had enough of being inside – I hadn’t left the house in four days, and so I snuck downstairs. Everyone was still in the kitchen, so I checked I had my keys, picked up a golf club that Dad had left by the door and slipped quietly out.

The streets were eerily quiet, reminding me of the noiselessness on the morning after a night of heavy snowfall. Dark clouds gathered in the sky and I encountered my first dead body at the end of the road. I say body, but all that lay beneath the lamppost was the torso and right arm of a woman. Her intestines trailed onto the road and I felt myself retch a little before continuing on.

I’d seen lots of death since the event. We all had. It never seemed to make it any easier. I decided to go the park that my friends and I would frequent in happier times. Times that I didn’t imagine would ever come back. I shoved my spare hand in my pocket and felt my fingers brush against my nail clippers. I chuckled and imagined myself fighting off a zombie with them. It was important to keep your sense of humour, I always felt, or else you’d go mad.

At the park, vast swathes of grass had been stained red and brown with blood in various stages of drying. It looked it there had been a recent fight and I suddenly felt nervous. I knew that if anything was coming, I would see or hear it long before it reached me as I was in the middle of a field and zombies shuffled along so slowly I could easily escape. Hopefully I’d get one with only one leg or something that had to crawl.

Over the hedges I could see the back of the hospital. Smoke coming from a broken window on the second floor suggested that someone else had survived and was holed up there. I wanted to go and see who it was, but decided nothing could be gained and since hospitals tended to attract the zombies. It had sort of spread a bit like MRSA it seemed, getting people in hospitals first.

There was a groan not far behind me. A groan I hadn’t heard in weeks, aside from Anne’s impressions. I turned quickly and there, not six feet away, was a zombie. So much for hearing them approach – I was too busy thinking about the hospital. I recognised who he had been – one of the caretakers from my old school. He held one blood-stained arm out to me, trying to reach my flesh. His head was bleeding and he’d lost his shoes.

I swung the golf club around and hit him in the face. He stumbled back, which gave me enough time to make a run for it towards the pavilion. When I reached there though, I regretted that choice, as behind it stood twenty or thirty other zombies, now all staring at me and groaning in what I could only imagine was excitement. I turned to run but tripped over a lone brick in the car park and twisted my ankle.

As the first hand grabbed my calf, I closed my eyes, and as I did, I could be sure I saw Mum running towards us brandishing two bread knives.

The Chair

Sandra nudged Clive hard in the ribs, which appeared to wake him up, although she hadn’t noticed he’d actually been asleep. She whispered, “This is it.” Two muscled men bought a chair onto the front stage and rested it next to the auctioneer.

It was a large armchair with salmon and yellow patterns all over it, and a threadbare white cushion on it. The arms were covered in the same material, save for the ends where varnished wood appeared. The seat and back looked so comfortable they looked like they’d swallow you up. Sandra supposed that this was no different from the way a poison dart frog has bright colours to warn you of its venom.

“This chair comes from the early nineteen thirties and is in very good condition,” said the auctioneer, reading from a card in his hand in the same monotonous voice he’d been using all night. Sandra stared at him; not really taking in what he was saying because anything he said about the chair would be a lie.

“That’s the chair.” Clive had finally comprehended a few moments behind as usual. He wasn’t stupid, just not really very observant of anything around him. Sandra always wondered why she’d been paired with him for cases as she worked far better alone.

“Shall we start the bidding at, two hundred pounds?” said the auctioneer. Sandra was surprised, as she had expected it to be much higher to begin with, but kept quiet and raised her hand quickly.

The auctioneer began to perform as more people bid.

“Two hundred from the lady in the green there. Two fifty. Three fifty. Four hundred from the man in the hat. Four fifty. Five hundred from the lady again. Seven fifty from the man in the dungarees. Eight hundred. Any advance on … thank you madam, nine hundred. A thousand there from the lady in the spots. One two. One three. One four. One five. One and a half thousand pounds to the lady in the green. Going once, going twice…”

“Five thousand pounds,” a gravely voice rang out. Sandra, frustrated and close to swearing spun in her seat to find out who said it and was completely unsurprised to note it was Bernard, her rival and the only other person who wanted the chair as badly as she and Clive did. Sandra’s eyes caught Bernard’s and he sneered at her, his scar creasing and giving him the impression of having two mouths.

“Five thousand pounds, quite a tidy sum,” the auctioneer dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief. “Any advance on that?”

Sandra stood up and took no chances. “Ten thousand pounds.” There was no limit to how much she could spend, but she didn’t know if the same was true of Bernard. She guessed and prayed that he had limited funds. She wanted this over and done with as quickly as possible.

Bernard looked as though he was thinking hard about the price but ultimately decided to sit back down and not continue the bidding. You’re getting old, thought Sandra.

“Right, well, sold to the brunette in the green shirt for ten thousand pounds,” said the auctioneer, banging his gavel. “Next we have lot number fifteen, a painting of three…”

Neither Sandra or Clive heard what the painting was of – although both would’ve been shocked if they had – as they had already made their way down the stairs and into the backroom where they were to pay for their purchase.

Sandra handed her credit card to a dainty young girl in a floral-patterned dress. She looked at the armchair, then at Sandra.

“Bit of a minging looking thing if you ask me,” she said. “You a collector?”

“Of sorts,” said Sandra. “We’ll take it now, by the way, we have a van outside.” Clive and a burly member of staff lifted it and began moving towards the door.

“Well, better than the usual crowd we get in here,” the girl said. “Normally pervy old men trying to look down my blouse and stuff.” She ripped the receipt from the machine and handed it back to Sandra with her card. “There you go ma’am, have a nice day.” She smiled with vaguely yellow teeth, Sandra nodded in response and followed Clive out the door.

Clive was opening the back of the van and the man who’d helped him, who according to an ID card on a lanyard around his neck was called Steve, was looking worn out.

“That thing’s a whole lot heavier than it looks,” he panted at Sandra. She smiled a tight-lipped smile and said, “It’s full. That’s all.”

“Full? What are you talking about?” Steve said. He didn’t wait for a reply and instead lowered himself into the chair to rest his feet.

“NO!” shouted Sandra and Clive at the same time, leaping towards him, but it was already too late. There was a slash, a scream and a gulp. The chair did what it had been designed to do, and devoured its occupant.

“I wouldn’t mind, but he was a big bloke and that’s going to be even heavier now,” sighed Clive, running a hand over his shorn head. “Come on S, let’s get it in the van and see what we can do with it.” Sandra sighed and stepped forward and, as she reached the chair, she could almost make out the whispers of the departed sitters, trapped for all eternity in salmon and yellow fabric.

Well Dressed Boy

There’s nothing about him to mark him as special
That well dressed boy in old London town
A dapper young chap, just minding his own
In polished black shoes, makes a clacking sound

He coats his legs in skin-tight jeans
They might as well be painted on
A vision in white and black and grey
Like a Photoshop painting in monochrome 

Expertly tousled, his hair defies physics
The wind never dares move a single strand
He wears large black glasses, you can’t see his eyes
And he carries a large, neat briefcase in hand

 Yet despite his good looks and aloof demeanour
He’s not that special, not one of a kind
Just another one of those damned metrosexuals
They love buying shoes, but are as straight as a line

 He could be a banker; he could be a rent boy
Perhaps he’s a wanker; perhaps he’s a god
Fine chiselled features, a sense of importance
There’s nothing about him proclaiming him odd 

But this lad holds a secret, one he can’t share
It burns him and churns him and makes him upset
Curiosity killed the cat, so they say,
But this cat’s still got eight lives left yet

Crayola Raven

Crayon
Steve
Twenty to five, nothing rhymes with crayon.

Hit me with something, play on
Felt-tip sleeve
Crayon

Can you see the day in
Night, please
Quarter to five, nothing rhymes with crayon

Lay on
Your love for me,
Crayon

Mayon-
naisse? Appease?
Ten to five, nothing rhymes with crayon

At least the eon
Ends and I grieve
Crayon
Five o’clock, nothing rhymes with crayon

Superpowers

If I could choose a superpower, I’d be able to stop time Then we could stop the world and never waste a minute we have together. If I could choose a superpower, I’d have superhuman speed Then I wouldn’t waste time getting to you; I’d be there when you needed me. If I could choose a superpower, I’d make myself invisible Then I could watch over you like an unseen guardian angel. If I could choose a superpower, I’d be able to read your mind Then I could give you whatever you wanted, whatever you thought of. If I could choose a superpower, I’d manipulate the weather Then we could kiss in the rain and picnic in the sunshine. If I could choose a superpower, I’d be able to duplicate myself Then I could always be with you if you wanted me to be. If I could choose a superpower, I’d be able to fly But I’d never be able to fly as high as I flew when I fell in love with you. I don’t have a superpower. And I’ll never be good enough for you.

Train

Train
Not even light
Get ready to fight
For a seat
Early morning smells
Smells of commuters
Leather briefcases
Leather shoes
Printed news
Dry hair, wet hair
Burnt hair, hairspray
Coffee and bacon
Toast and bagels
Commuters tired
No one speaks
Window squeaks
Trees rush by
Fields and towns
Newspapers rustle
People get on
No one gets off
A single cough
Pull in, pull away
Same every day
Laptops beep
Rummage for tickets
They never check
A snore, a sneeze
Get me off now please

Parallel Universes

Some scientists say that there are an infinite number of parallel universes
Some say that there’s just this one
But let us say for a moment that an infinite number exist
What does that mean for us?

There’s a universe where we’re still together, still going strong
But so much more than that
There’s one where I’m in a boy band singing songs for you
And you’re my loyal groupie

There’s one where we grew up together in the same town and were firm friends
In that one, I doubt we were more
There’s one where we never met, never knew the other existed
And ones where we don’t exist at all

There’s one where you’re famous and I’m your tag-along boyfriend
Always worrying that you’ve had enough
There’s one where we’ve already got a kid and another one coming soon
That’s one that scares me

There’s one where electricity still hasn’t been invented and we write romantic letters
And we reread them every night
But we’re stuck in this universe and what’s happened has happened
And we can’t change any of it

Graveside

Spencer drifted through the throng of people, nodding to those he liked, ignoring those he was less happy to see. He was looking for someone. Where was she? Ah, there. Ahead of him stood Jenna, his youngest sibling and only sister, dressed in a smart black dress, a shawl draped around her shoulders. She was not wearing a hat, but had instead dyed her usually blonde hair black.

Spencer’s arm curled up round her shoulders and she sighed as the hairs on the back of her neck stood to attention.

“It doesn’t seem real does it?” he whispered.

“I … I just don’t know what I’m going to do,” she sniffed, dabbing at her nose with a handkerchief Spencer recognised as his own. “He was so important to me.”

“I know, I know,” said Spencer, brushing the hair from his sister’s face. “I worry about silly things though, like what’s happening to the flat?”

“I wonder if I should move into the flat,” Jenna stared into the distance, tears continuing to form in her eyes. “Get me out of the house.”

“That sounds nice,” said Spencer. He began to walk off again.

“Don’t leave me!” said Jenna quietly, the panic rising in her voice.

“I’m just going over there,” Spencer pointed, but he didn’t think Jenna noticed. She was crying again.

Spencer made his way quietly over to where Zack Zeff was fiddling with something in his pocket. Spencer noticed a discrete black earphone emerging from the top of his friend’s thick jacket. Why did everyone wear black to funerals? Why weren’t they celebrating the life of the deceased? Spencer had never been to a funeral before, which was unusual for a twenty-five year old. All of his grandparents had died young and so he hadn’t gone to theirs, and the rest of his family and friends remained healthy, so he’d never had cause to. He supposed that that was a good thing.

“Before you say anything, it’s depressing classical music, OK?” said Zack quietly, not looking at Spencer. Zack was one of those people it was impossible to dislike. He could go to a fancy dinner party, put his feet on the table and goose the hostess yet still be considered cheeky or even slightly eccentric.

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” smirked Spencer. “I wouldn’t expect any less from you. Who is it?”

“I don’t know, some dead musician,” said Zack, before realising what he’d said. The horror seeped slowly into his face and took over his Hollywood-worthy good looks. “Shit, I mean, oh God … oh, bloody hell, blasphemy and everything.”

“It’s OK,” said Spencer, patting his friend on the shoulder. Zack shivered and said, “I didn’t mean disrespect like that. No one heard me did they?”

“I don’t think so,” Spencer looked round but everyone was either crying or engaged in conversation. A sea of black standing around an empty grave. The hearse still wasn’t here. “And, between you and me, he was a shit musician.”

Zack smirked.

“He wouldn’t’ve made the big time, would he?”

“I guess now we’ll never know,” Spencer said diplomatically. A high-pitched wailing suddenly broke the quiet mumbling. Everyone swivelled and Spencer caught sight of Courtney Benson, his ex-girlfriend and now friend (at times, anyway), blowing her nose into a blue handkerchief.

“I wonder what that’s about,” said Zack.

“I’ll go find out,” Spencer reached Courtney’s side in a few swift movements. “What’s the matter, Court?”

“The hearse is still not here,” she wailed again, her blue eyes – so beautiful and perfect that if a writing student had tried to describe them, they would’ve been scolded for using clichés – shining with tears. Spencer noticed his oldest friend Matt shifting the weight between his feet, looking nervously at the ground. Crying women always made him uncomfortable – he must’ve been in hell.

“It will be here soon,” said Spencer. “It’s all going to be OK. It’s probably just stuck in traffic.”

“It’s the middle of a Thursday afternoon! How many cars are on the road at this time?” said Courtney, bursting into tears once more. “What if it’s rolled off the road? What if the driver was drunk and he’s gone and parked it somewhere to get more beer and then forgotten where he parked it? Or, what if … what if …” She ran out of steam and sobbed instead.

Spencer hugged her but she didn’t move. Zack and Jenna had by now appeared too, each patting Courtney’s back, trying to convince her it was going to be OK. Spencer looked around for Matt. He saw him standing several metres away, looking at a white marble grave. His brown hair feathered in the wind, his hands were stuffed deep within his pockets. Spencer went to him, moving quietly.

“Do you think about her often?” he said as he reached Matt’s shoulder.

“All the time,” he said. He crouched to touch up the flowers on his wife’s grave, pulling out the dead ones and throwing them aside.

Matt had been the one who had grown up quickest. He was married at twenty-two and had a daughter. But Polly had developed breast cancer and had passed away just seven months ago.

“How’s Tessa?” said Spencer, crouching alongside, stroking the cast aside flowers.

“Tessa’s fine, really fine,” smiled Matt. He always smiled when thinking about his daughter, his pride and joy. She was a gorgeous girl who never gave him any trouble, knowing the heartache her father had been through, even if she didn’t really understand where her mother had gone. “She starts school next month. It’s all just gone so fast. I wish you could’ve lived to see that at least. It would’ve bought her so much happiness.”

“I hope it brings you happiness too, Matt,” said Spencer. “You and Tessa are great together. She’s a fantastic kid.”

“She misses you,” Matt had got to his feet again and was now just staring at the gold lettering on the grave.

 

POLLY MARIE FLEMING.

5^TH APRIL 1984 – 30^TH JANUARY 2008.

BELOVED MOTHER AND WIFE.

YOU ARE GREATLY MISSED.

 

“You should come and visit her sometime.”

“I’ll do my best,” Spencer promised. He and Matt then walked in silence back to where Courtney, Jenna and Zack were still standing.

“Are you feeling better?” Matt asked Courtney.

“I’m sorry everyone, I’m sorry,” she said. Spencer understood the apologies. Courtney was one of the strongest people he knew. He felt that her earlier outburst had been a little bit too extreme and overblown. Everyone grieves in different ways.

“It’s going to be strange without him around isn’t it?” she said after blowing her nose again. “I mean, he’s always been there.”

“Totally odd,” said Zack. “Who am I going to beat at snooker now?”

“I just can’t believe it,” Matt shook his head. “First Polly and now … this is such a rubbish year.” Tears shimmered in his eyes and Jenna held his hand.

“It’s OK,” she said, squeezing it tightly, his warm hand against her cold one. “We’ll get through this. We can all cope. We’re all here for each other.”

“I keep thinking I see him everywhere,” said Zack. “It was just such a shock. I still don’t think it’s really sunk in.”

“I know what you mean,” said Jenna. “I woke up this morning and found myself talking to him. It’s so silly.” Matt looked at her and said, “It’s not silly. I still talk to Polly. I come down and visit the grave and tell her what Tessa and I have been up to and how everything is going.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean …” Jenna started, but Matt cut her off by waving his hand, letting her know that it didn’t matter. She was silent for a moment before saying, “I better go and see if mum’s OK.”

“I’ll come too,” said Spencer and trailed after her. Her slim figure cut a swathe through the crowd as people moved to make way for the grieving girl. Spencer followed, hardly noticed since upset women always get more attention than upset men.

“How are you, mum?” said Jenna, resting her hand on her mother’s shoulder. She was wearing a fancy black hat that looked like it had ended the life of at least three bowerbirds.

“How do you think I am?” snapped Fiona. “I might be a little better if he wasn’t here.” Jenna and Spencer instantly knew that this particular he was their father, Charles, who had run out on the family six years ago yet continually tried to be a part of his children’s lives. They didn’t mind, but Fiona wanted nothing to do with him. “How did he even know this was today?”

“I told him,” said Jenna, not caring that her mother would resent her for the rest of all time. “I had to, he had to be here.”

“You couldn’t not invite him,” said Spencer, looking at his father who was standing nervously next to an apple tree, not talking to anyone and not meeting anyone’s eye. “I’m glad he’s here.”

“He doesn’t have to be anywhere,” spat Fiona. “I wish I’d taken out that restraining order. I’m going to give him a piece of my mind.” Before anyone could grab her, Fiona had marched around the other side of the empty grave and was poking her ex-husband in the chest. Jenna and Spencer hurried behind – their mum moved fast for someone with a false knee and early-onset arthritis.

“I want you to leave,” she said. Charles didn’t say anything in reply.

“Mum, please, stop this!” cried Jenna. Spencer too began telling her to leave him alone but Fiona didn’t seem to hear anything.

“You don’t deserve to have anything to do with us,” she said, looking ready to punch him in the stomach.

“I deserve to be here, thank you very much,” said Charles, his voice rising but still sounding calm. “I’d do anything for my kids.”

“Yes, even walk out on them, you bastard!” Fiona raised her handbag to strike.

“STOP IT!” shouted Jenna. Everyone turned round to look at what was causing the yelling and Zack and Matt ran over. Fiona had frozen with her handbag level with her head. She lowered it slowly.

“What’s going on?” said Zack, an earphone still swinging from his lapel when he stopped. “Is everything OK, Mrs Carrington?”

“Mum, dad, please,” Jenna pleaded, desperate for peace and calm, tears flowing freely down her face again. “Now is not the time. You can hate each other as much as you like any other time but I will not be put in the middle of it anymore. For one day can you just tolerate each other? You were fine, just go and stand apart. The hearse isn’t even here yet and I do not want you ruining the wake as well.”

Fiona was still fuming but turned sharply on her heel and returned to the other side of the grave and began bitching with her sisters.

“I’m sorry,” said Charles, hugging Jenna. “I’m sorry for everything.”

“I forgive you,” said Jenna, hugging back. “I never blamed you and I always loved you.”

“I forgive you too,” said Spencer, hanging back a little. Jenna always was Charles’s favourite. He followed Zack and Matt back to where Courtney was still standing, looking onto the empty road for any sign of the hearse.

“I love you all,” Spencer said after a few moments of silence. Everyone smiled. “I just think it’s going to be weird from now on, all of us not hanging around together anymore. It’s time to grow up and move on I suppose.”

There was more silence, as no one really knew what to say. Funerals were unhappy events, when in fact they usually had the capacity to be jolly.

“I need a drink,” said Zack. “It’s an open bar isn’t it?”

“Don’t be so vulgar,” said Courtney, hitting his arm gently. “But yes.”

“I agree with Zack,” Matt nodded. “I’ve had enough of funerals to last me a long time. I can’t lose anyone else, not for a while now.”

There was the sound on tyres on gravel and everyone looked up to see the hearse coming up the church driveway.

“At last, thank God,” Courtney clutched her chest and grabbed Zack’s arm for support. Everyone moved closer to the grave as the pallbearers slowly carried the mahogany coffin up to the crowd.

“Nice,” Spencer raised his eyebrows, impressed by the quality of it. He’d had nothing to do with the arrangements.

As the coffin was lowered into the grave, Spencer took that moment to say his final goodbyes. He couldn’t stay any longer. He took one last look at the people that mattered to him – Matt. Zack. Courtney. Jenna. Mum. Dad. Everyone else. Then, without another look behind him, he turned and walked off. Where he was going, he didn’t know. He didn’t want to know. He just had to go.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” began the vicar as soon as the pallbearers had moved off. “We are gathered here today to mourn the passing of Spencer Carrington – brother, friend, son and talented musician. His sister, Jenna, would like to say a few words.”

Some dance to remember

Some dance to remember, some dance to forget. Tonight, I was dancing to forget. My right hand clasped his left and I guided his hip around the room as we moved in time to the music. His blue eyes shone out of the darkness, lighting up his whole face. I couldn’t help but smile as he looked at me, our eyes joined by an invisible bond I didn’t want to break.

“I shouldn’t be here,” I said, and although I knew the words were true, I couldn’t stop dancing. I was even leading – it had been my idea to dance. What was I doing? My girlfriend sat at home and here I was dancing with the most handsome man I’d ever encountered.

“You should be here,” he whispered. “Forget about her. And anyway, you aren’t cheating. We’re just dancing, that’s all. Just dancing.”

“I’m not just dancing anymore,” I said, unable to believe I was just about to say what I was going to say. “I think I’m falling.”

“Falling?” He knew what I meant, but his face sought confirmation.

“In love,” I said. Finally, I stopped dancing and we stood looking at each other, completely alone in the hall, the quiet sound of the radio all the noise there was. “And isn’t it worse to fall in love with someone when you shouldn’t than to have sex with someone?”

“No,” he said, gently stroking my cheek. I should’ve backed off but I didn’t want to, his soft fingers on my stubbly face gave me a rush more powerful and intense than any drug. “You’re human. You’re fallible. We all make mistakes. But let me ask you, honestly. Does this feel like a mistake?”

I paused.

“Not one bit,” I said. “But tomorrow you have to go home and I have to go back to her and I’ll be left with your memory.”

“Then we’ll have to make it a night you’ll never forget,” he smiled and took my hand. I smiled at the thought.

“Just one more dance?” I said.

“Just one,” he smiled at me. Our lips touched for the briefest moment, the electricity firing around our bodies. No one could deny chemistry like that. I put my hand on his hip and resumed my dance to forget. A dance I would always remember.

Mr Brightside

It started out with a kiss. How did it end up like this? It was only a kiss.

 

It was only a kiss.

 

We had met back in the summer of 2005 at a party held by a mutual friend. There was a barbecue and it was populated by people of the age somewhere between university and marriage. The floating masses, those who still were in the mindset of a student but knew they should be further ahead.

 

In our heads, as children, we sometimes imagine we will be married and settled by this age. My parents married and had my older sister when they were nineteen. I guess I assumed the same would be true for me, although, as I’d aged, I’d thought children would never happen for me. I didn’t want them. I was happy being young, free and single.

 

She brushed past me, chestnut hair cascading down her back, the most beautiful girl I’d ever met. My mates, believing me to have no chance with her, bet me fifty quid that I couldn’t pull her by the end of the night, doubling the prize if I slept with her. I took them up on their offer and followed the girl inside.

 

We talked. She had the most beautiful name, the longest eyelashes, the cutest nose, the silkiest voice. I moved in for the kiss and she accepted, one long-nailed hand in my blonde hair, the other still clutching her vodka and coke.

 

It was only a kiss.

 

We slept together that night and, for the first time, I didn’t fuck, I didn’t screw and I didn’t even have sex. We made love. It was incredibly romantic but I could never tell the guys. I thought that that was it. She left in the morning and I didn’t see her again. At least, not for a couple of months.

 

And now, I lay in bed, with her dozing quietly beside me, and my son jumping up and down on the end of the bed as I try to read the paper, I wonder where the time went. What happened? I never wanted children. I never wanted to be married before the age of thirty. I knew deep down that I was yet to even fall in love. I’d never loved her. I’d stayed with her because she was pregnant, because it was the right thing to do.

 

It started out with a kiss. How did it end up like this? It was only a kiss.

 

It was only a kiss.