Page 2 of The Second Chance Bus Stop
‘It’s okay, we can take it slow. Just kissing.’ He leans in again, completely unaware of, and not intending to find out,whatit is I can’t do. I put my hand on his chest, and it drums against my palm. I don’t like it. It feels too excited—like a dog’s tail wagging. Drumdrumdrum.
‘I don’tkiss. I thought I could, but it turns out I can’t. I wrote it in one of my messages to you?’
He looks genuinely confused.
‘I thought that was some pun or turn-on technique. Hot girl wants to skip foreplay? Any guy is all in and down with that.’
Great. Remind me to add it toThe Autistic’s Guide to Life’s chapter on getting the attention of a man:How to make your quirk work and really turn them on.
‘Well, no, it’s anactualno to kissing.’ We stare at each other for an awkward minute, as if we’re children checking who willblink first. I think about placing a hand on his body but am not sure where I’d put it. I leave my arms hanging by my side. He attempts a joke.
‘Sure you’re not some kind of a prostitute?’
It’s not a funny one, so I don’t reply. He shifts uncomfortably on the spot.
‘The no kissing. You know,Pretty Woman? I thought that’s what working girls do to not get attached.’
‘Ed, I am trying very hard to get attached. However, I do not wish to attach my lips to yours. That is the point I am desperately trying to make here. All other body parts would be okay to attach.’
‘Gotcha. Erm, listen. I’m all for attaching stuff and all, but... we may have different goals here.’
I want to argue that no, we do not have different goals (we both want a relationship) but rather different paths and ideas about how to achieve them (no lips versus lots of lips). But then I think of all the inspirational quotes I’ve ever been fed that say things likeEnjoy the Journey. I think how others are usually uninterested in my different-looking journey. And it’s clear Ed won’t be coming along with me onmyjourney.
‘I’m going to go now,’ I say. ‘Thank you for the dinner, the wine and the ice cream.’
I am about to turn around and leave him there when I have second thoughts. Kissing is essential for getting attached. I can’t meet someone and get them to like me without that part of the deal. I pep-talk myself.If this is what you need to do, then go and bloody do it, Sophia, I hear my uncle’s voice saying. I’m fairly sure he wasn’t talking about kissing men named Ed, but I think his words apply in this scenario too. I have tried a lot of things in order to advance my life, to become a happier, more fulfilled version of myself. The one thing I’ve failed to try sofar is a relationship. And I’m convinced that it’s the answer to this nagging feeling of not quite having it all. Itmustbe.
So I decide to try. At least once. I’m twenty-five and getting a little antsy, not for love and marriage and cute babies and getting to romanticise sleep deprivation. But for someone to like, hold and dothose thingswith. I will look up how long bacteria live, and I will survive it. There’s always mouthwash. I have it at home. Perhaps if I do it once he will be satisfied, and we won’t have to do it again.Okay. Ready.
I lean towards him, and that’s all the encouragement he needs. Excited to have changed my mind, to have converted me, he puts his hand behind my head intertwining my long hair with his fingers, and I can sense all my follicles protesting. Then he ravishes my mouth. Devours it. Heads into battle, bending open my defence and rushing his army of bacteria in via a wave of saliva. He tugs at my bottom lip, and I stiffen. It’s wet and horrid, and my brain can’t anticipate where his tongue will move next so every touch is a bloody horrendous surprise. A shock to my nervous system and a complete sensory overload. And there are so manytastes.A hint of fresh mint. Deep tones of arabica coffee.
It’sawful.
And in that moment I promise myself to never kiss anyone again.
This is the first and last time.
I’m Sophia, collector of labels, and my most recent one is Single—Unhappily—for Bloody Life.
Blade
London
I get the call when I’m racking up the weights. Two dudes are watching me to see that I really have wiped them down. But then, I could just be imagining it. Always feel watched even if I’m not, but try to remind myself that sometimes it really is all in my head. Actually, usually it’s all in my head. I focus on the feeling of all my muscles being tense, worked to the limit, so that my brain can’t even utter any of its normal anxious shit, but that bubble is burst as soon as I put the dumbbells back on the rack. My mind goes back to reality. To bills, to work, to mum.Mum.There’s a missed call from an unknown number on my phone. I turn the device sideways so my finger can touch the uncracked area of the screen and call back.
‘Hello?’
‘Is this Edith’s next of kin?’
‘Yes,’ I admit reluctantly, as if confessing a crime. Or rather, waiting to hear what crime she has committed. Shouldn’t it be the other way? I’m twenty-nine, and she’s sixty-four. Surely I should be the troublemaker?
‘That would be me.’
‘I am a social worker in Kensington and Chelsea borough.I am here with your mother. I was called in to assist an hour ago. We have tried to get her home, as it appears she’s in fact not homeless but gave us an address in Streatham. Is that correct? She seems to have a bus card and enough cash for a taxi but is insisting on staying put. She isn’t in pain or injured. Just very stubborn.’
All my muscles suddenly ache, but I know I can’t blame the weights.
‘Right. I’ll be there in—where did you say you were?’
