Page 5 of Rhymes with Metaphor
While they waited for the kettle to boil, Juliet opened Martin’s present.“Chocolates!How sweet, Martin!”Juliet kissed Martin on the cheek.
“That’s all right, then,” Martin muttered, blushing furiously.
“Small party?”said Reg.
“No,” said Juliet.“They’re being considerate.”She said to Martin, “Joel’s studying for his MCAT, and I promised we wouldn’t disturb him.”
The kettle whistled, and Juliet made the coffee.“Cream or sugar, Reg?”
“I take it neat, thanks,” said Reg.
Juliet had that carefully made up no-make-up look.As she handed Reg his coffee, he noticed she was wearing clear nail polish as well.
In the living room, they were introduced to eight of Juliet’s friends and colleagues, all from the Psychology Department, all wearing socks.A definite whiff of careening-towards-middle-age emanated from them all, and it sent a shudder through Reg.
After enduring a few minutes of probing questions, making Reg feel as if he were about to be alienized, he caught a whiff of cigarette smoke coming from the vicinity of the open back door.He excused himself and went off to investigate.The back door led to a porch of grey, stressed wood, hung with sun catchers.Here, he met Abigail, Juliet’s housemate.After introducing themselves, Reg begged a cigarette off her, and they leaned side by side against the porch railing.Abigail had orange and blond braids and wore violet contacts, which matched her lipstick.
“How do you know Juliet?”said Abigail.
“I don’t.I’m crashing her party.”Reg sipped his coffee and winced.Rancid, as expected.
“You want a real drink?”said Abigail.
“Juliet said there was only instant.”
“Adrinkdrink,” said Abigail.“I invented this cocktail—Cold Crash.It’ll wake the fuck out of you.”
“What’s in it?”
“Secret formula,” said Abigail, winking.Her eyeshadow was purplish blue, like the inside of a black dog’s ear.
“Later, perhaps,” said Reg.
They smoked for a while in amiable silence, broken by the periodic, subdued laughter of Juliet’s friends.The air was unaccountably mild for March, but the dead grass and black trees made the evening feel like summer with the tablecloth pulled out from under it.
“What do you do?”said Abigail.
“Sweet fuck-all at the moment,” said Reg.“I used to write poetry.”
“I could tell you weren’t one of Juliet’s friends.”
Reg blew out a plume of smoke.“No.”
After a long pause, Abigail said, “Are you bi?”
“Afraid not.”
Abigail contemplated the end of her cigarette, looking mildly disappointed.
Inside the house, Martin was laughing in that goose-honk way he had when he was attempting to flirt with someone.
Reg finished his awful coffee.“Time for a top-up.”
He went back to the kitchen, only to find someone already there, looking inside the freezer.The someone was wearing what looked like military green pyjamas—loose trousers with a drawstring and a short-sleeved, vee-necked top over a white T-shirt, all looking freshly ironed.The person in question shut the freezer door, revealing his face.He looked too young to be at an adult’s party.He was slight and pale and had dark brown hair, and he was holding a glass of light yellow liquid that clinked with ice.
“Sorry, sonny, you’re too young for that,” said Reg, lifting the glass out of the boy’s hand.It was something a prefect at Reg’s old boarding school would have done.He didn’t know why he did it, except that he wasn’t used to being around people that much younger than he was, and perhaps he thought that seniority lent him the authority to issue a reprimand.
The boy blinked at him.“It’s ginger ale.”He had a calm and pleasant voice, deeper than Reg expected from a boy of his apparent age.
