Page 7 of Monarch
My eyebrow quirks at that comment, but then I’m distracted by her accent. “Are you Dutch? Sorry, I don’t speak Dutch.”
“It’s okay. You don’t have to apologise for that.”
“You speak English very well. You don’t even have much of an accent.”
“I work in English a lot. And I did my degree in languages. English and French.”
“Wow, impressive.”
“Not really,” she says, and then her gaze wanders around behind me. I’m aware then that we’re stood in the middle of the narrow pathway outside the gallery on the corner of a bigger canal. The occasional bike rattles past us, and one taxi is on the approach, its light shining on the top of its roof.
“Do you need a taxi? There’s one coming,” I explain. I’m very aware that I’m scrambling for things to say, ways to apologise, compensation to offer.
“No, I’ve got my bike,” the woman says, her gaze still not settled back on me.
“You can’t cycle after that. What if you’ve got a concussion? What if you pass out?”
She starts to move, perhaps to prove that she’s fine. “My mother cycled herself to the hospital four hours before I was born,” she says. “I’m pretty sure I can cycle even if I have a concussion.”
I follow her, increasingly worried she’s not okay, what with that misty look in her eyes and that dismissive comment. “I really do feel terrible.” I suck in a breath and a little bit of courage. “Maybe I could buy you a drink to apologise?”
“You’re offering me alcohol while you think I have a concussion?” She crosses the road and reaches a bike locked to the bridge’s railings.
“No! Shit, no. Don’t bars do, like, hot chocolate here?”
She stops unlocking her bike and looks at me, really looks at me. I was right; in the dimmer light away from the gallery’s front window, her eyes become darker, a grey-green like a forest cloaked in fog.
“You’re being very British about this,” she tells me.
“What does that mean?” I am audibly taken aback by her directness.
“You’re…” She searches for the right word. “Fussing.”
“How do you know so much about British fussing?”
“I have a lot of British friends,” she looks down, “A British ex, too.”
“Well, I’m very sorry to hear that,” I tease, and that gets another smile out of her. I stick out my hand. “I’m Mari, they/them.”
“I’m Roos, she/her.” She shakes my hand after only a second of looking at it like it might hurt her.
“Well, now you know my name and that I’m British and prone to a nasty case of fussing, I feel like you have to go for a drink with me. We’re practically friends.”
Her body shakes with light laughter. I’m annoyed at the rumbling of a passing tram for taking the full sound of it away from me.
“Fine,” she says, locking her bike back up again. “One drink.”
*****
Roos leads me onto a street that I can’t pronounce and she suggests a bar that is ‘queer-friendly’. I’m not surprised she’s picked up on that, but I’m always curious what exactly tipped her off. I suspect it was my pronouns, but maybe the X inked on the top of my hand caught her eye first? Or was it my septum piercing or the one in my left nostril? Or the way my short bob of messy curls has purple tips? Maybe I’ll get to know her well enough to ask.
I’m starting to think I’d like to know her a little, or maybea lot, better.
Which is obviously getting way ahead of myself. But I think I’m feeling salty after HungTransMan didn’t reply to me last night, and none of the other offers I got from K1NK were anywhere close to as appealing.
Inside, the bar is cosy. Most of the tables and chairs are that warm, slightly red-tinged wood, and over half of them are occupied. Roos wasn’t lying. Judging by the patrons, this is a very queer establishment, and I immediately breathe a little easier because of it. She leads me to a free table and takes off her jacket. I do the same – although I need many more minutes for my scarf – and then I dump my phone on the table.
“What would you like?” I ask.
