Page 13 of Maybe
So, as far as Gerald was concerned, real coffee at a real café in Covent Garden at the sensible time of two p.m. was only one step down from tea at the Ritz and a marriage proposal.
Hopefully, he didn’t mind being out in public with a man sporting blood specks on his collar. Served me right for electing not to change into scrubs at work yesterday. The shirt I’d vaguely had in mind while rummaging through my hopeless collection of dated, generic clothing saiddry clean onlyon the label, guaranteeing it would be even grubbier than the beige one I’d wore two days on the bounce.
My date, on the other hand, looked and dressed exactly how one would imagine an optometrist from Croydon.Gerald.He wasn’t unattractive per se, but if he was a yoga pose, he’d be a downward spiral. Anyhow, the relationship was already doomed, seeing as I’d been bullied at prep school by a boy named Gerald. Even bringing my eyes level with this one, as he critiqued this year’s Booker shortlist (spoiler alert; I hadn’t read any of them) gave me flashback-induced palpitations. If we ever got around to exchanging saliva and spunk, I’d need a pacemaker fitted.
The coffee was serviceable though, and a teaspoon available for stirring in sugar. Yesterday, Alaric and I spooned instant into paper cups using a wooden tongue depressor. The week before, I’d eaten my cornflakes off a knife.
Gerald and I were seated at an outside table under a heat lamp literally sucking the ozone from the planet. A busker was somewhere not very far away, telling me, through the medium of song and in a pleasing, sexy tenor, to let go of my heart andmy head and I’d reach Babylon. Frankly, that felt tempting as fuck while receiving the full force of Gerald’s analysis of a novel I never had any intention of purchasing. “The audacity of the narrative techniques inSeven MoonsI think is what clinched it for the judges. Karunatilaka managed to somehow combine a metaphysical thriller with a deep humanity, which I think Bell tried and didn’t quite pull off, especially in… You’ve not listened to a word I’ve said, have you?”
Gerald’s less pleasing, slightly nasal bass cut through my Babylonian fantasies.
“Um… some of it? You lost me slightly. Busy few days, you know.”
He frowned. “You do understand what professional dating apps are for, don’t you, Isaac? You know, meeting like-minded souls, deciding if you could be compatible? Your profile said you enjoyed films and books. I made it very clear I wasn’t interested in random sex or time wasters.”
The busker’s song came to an end, receiving a muted round of applause from the café next to ours. I regretted not choosing that one now; it was closer, and he was good. I’d have been happy to listen to him all afternoon instead of…
“Hello, earth to Isaac?”
Christ, Gerald was still here, nibbling on a nail bitten down beyond the quick. “I’m not a time waster.” I steered well clear of the random sex comment. “Honestly, you, ah… I intended to read it and…”
“I mean, are you actually even gay or simply looking for someone to hang out with occasionally? Tormenting me for the hell of it? Because if you are one of those men who does this for shits and giggles, tell me now. I fell for one of those. He kept me on the hook for six months and I ended up with a prescription for Zoloft. I’m not falling for it again.”
People did this forgiggles?“Of course I’m gay, and I’ve never tormented anyone in my life.” I hadn’t giggled for approximately ten years either, and it may have been the first time I actually admitted I was gay out loud to someone other than the staff at the sexual health clinic and my reflection in the mirror.
A large party of Italian tourists vacated the three tables next to ours, reducing the ambient noise levels sufficiently to hear the busker softly strumming, tuning up his guitar. A screech of amp feedback split the momentary quiet, treating us all to a powerful, sonic slap around the head. Yet nowhere near as powerful as the familiar opening chords of the Tom Petty hit the busker plucked out as he carried on adjusting the amp. Ezra used to practise that one for hours. For a bittersweet second, I was transported back in time.
However, when the busker opened his mouth to introduce his upcoming Tom Petty song, time skidded back into the present and crashed to a halt.
“The next tune I’m going to play is for the emotionally dysfunctional.” Another delicate strum.
“Hah! The guy saw you coming!” sniggered Gerald, which was rich coming from a man sporting a nervous tic. Perhaps weweresoulmates.
“And for the intellectually constipated.” A tinkling riff accompanied the busker’s honeyed low chuckle. A veryfamiliarhoneyed low chuckle. Belonging to the only fucker alive who could make constipation sound sexy. “It’s for kids with daddy issues. But not in a good way.”
Across from me, Gerald huffed a laugh, not noticing I’d morphed into all of those things in the time it took this smart-wittedbuskerto say them. Ninety-two miserable bloody days had dragged by since he’d abandoned me in the underground carpark. It had nothing on ten years, but still. Three months! Winter rolled into spring, and despite having my home address,the solicitor’s phone number, and my place of work, he’d done fuck all about keeping in touch.
And now here he was, twisting my stomach into tight knots and making my heart feel things it wasn’t supposed to. With the Italian retreat, I had an unobstructed view of my older brother, appearing a whole lot more angelic than a man dressed like a goth lampshade and spouting that shit had a right. With the voice of an angel too, as if he hadn’t gate-crashed his own father’s fucking memorial service, blind drunk.
“Intellectually constipated?” Gerald scoffed. “This guy should be on the stage. Honestly, Isaac, I didn’t come out to be ignored by my dateandreminded of his shortcomings.”
Gerald waited until now to display a sense of humour?
“Play Wonderwall!” hollered a bloke hidden amongst a group of builders from off the construction site across the road.
Oh God, please don’t. There was an odds-on chance I’d pass out if he did.
“Sorry, mate. I don’t know that one.” Ezra didn't lift his head from his fretboard.Thank fuck.“You must be mistaking me for a heterosexual soccer hooligan from 1995.”
The heckler and his cronies cackled. “Call yourself a busker, pal, but you can’t do Wonderwall? You must be the only one in London!”
Ezra shrugged. “Perhaps I’ll learn it one day. Need to sort out my sock drawer first,pal, and rereadWar and Peace.”
Ezra began playing properly, picking out gentle chords and tapping his foot. I had no idea what the song was; a country ballad. He could have been singing Humpty Dumpty for all I cared.
“I’m leaving.” Gerald rose from his seat, a first for me. I was the one usually rushing off somewhere. “Otherwise, I’ll be late for book club.” He shot me a glare. “I’d been happy to forego this week. Except I’ve seen people picking out birthday cards inTesco with more enthusiasm than you’ve shown for our date. I’m sorry, Isaac, but I’m cutting it short.”
Which was a shame; he’d cracked two jokes in under a minute and transformed into someone interesting.
