Page 7 of Fallen Thorns
Lucy’s face brightened, “I knew I recognised the accent. It’s cute. You one of those farm boys then? Mountaineers?A poet?”
I laughed. That wasn’t the first time I’d been asked that. My present sense of style also didn’t help matters, but no, I was not a farmer. I explained I lived in a village with my mother and dog, Bess, in a converted chapel, and though I was prone to the occasional mountain walk, I generally didn’t love the outdoors. This generated another beaming smile, which would have put me at ease, if it were not for her hand brushing my thigh under the table. It was subtle and harmless, but my heart contracted. I began rubbing my neck whilst trying to maintain eye contact. I wasn’t sure how to react; I would have thought it was too early for this sort of contact. We had barely talked.
She must have noticed my discomfort and removed her hand.
I cleared my throat, desperately seeking distraction from the last ten seconds. “So, where are you from, if you don’t mind me asking? I can’t placeyouraccent.”
Lucy started twirling strands of her deep green hair while a smirk formed across her face. She took another big slurp of gin. “All over really. I was born in France believe it or not, but after many disagreeable travels, I ended up here,” she gestured to the surroundings with both arms. “I’ve been here for about six months. Everyone is so polite, and the architecture isstunning. Have you been to the cathedral yet?”
“Not yet. Though I want to. It looks...peaceful.”
She cocked her head to the left and leaned closer, floral perfume wafting in my direction. I noticed her silver hooped earrings had little red gems in them.
“Are you religious?” she asked.
I wasn’t. Not at all, in fact. But every religious building offered a sense of comfort. The cathedral from the outside was spectacular. Heroic stained-glass scenes and proud statues protected every corner, like a knight watching over its kingdom.
“Not really, how about you?”
It dawned on me, then, that I was simply relaying questions back to her rather than starting topics on my own. I was trying hard to keep the conversation flowing, despite my growing discomfort.
She removed the straws and downed the rest of her glass in a rather dramatic fashion. “Don’t really have time for it. My mother was a Catholic, a rather devout one too, but thankfully I found my own path.”
“Hmm.” I wasn’t even trying at this point. “Would you like another drink? My treat.” The words sort of fell out of my mouth.
“Trying to get me drunk? I see the true Arlo now.” She winked at me, but the joke took a while to sink in. All I could think about was how hot the room was getting, how loud people were talking, and how dark the sky was.Calm down,I told myself.You are in control.
I took off my jumper and went over to the bar to buy her another drink. Reluctantly buying another for myself as well. I took my time back to the table where she sat, her cheeks glistening from the light of her phone screen. She was evidently bored, and I damned myself for how rude I had been.
“Sorry,” I said, setting her drink in front of her.
She let out a disinterested huff, almost a laugh, but was clearly not engaged in my presence at all. Realising I’d returned, she quickly slammed her phone face down on the table and sat back upright, eyes wide.
“Sorry, where were we? Oh, thank you.” She grabbed her gin glass and pulled it towards herself. “So, what are you studying? Are you first year or…?”
Straight back into the conversation.
“I’m first year. English Literature.”
Lucy raised her head, assessing me as if I were a book to read.
“A poet?” She smirked. “I’m right, aren’t I.”
My shoulders raised a little, embarrassed. “Maybe. I enjoy writing, but I won’t claim that title just yet,” I laughed.
Lucy squinted slightly, eyes wandering the path into my soul. Her face illuminated. “Read me something.”
I leaned back into the sponge of the chair, feet firmly on the ground. “Oh, I’m not sure… I don’t have anything on me…” I was not prepared to share my work at all. It was far too personal for a first date. Or any date, for that matter. My poems were mine, and I deliberately did not advertise that yes, I wrote frequently — every day, actually. I did not wish to share that I spent many a night pouring my heart and soul into writing. Pages upon pages sat stashed in my drawers, never to be looked at again. These were spur-of-the-moment scriptures, nothing for the eyes of anyone, including my future self.
I needed to change the subject.
“Do you have any siblings?” That was the only thing that came to my mind, but it was something I deemed important to learn about someone whom you were getting to know.
Lucy smiled fondly then looked to the wall for a fraction of a second. “No. Just me.”
“Same for me, an only child. Though I wish sometimes I wasn’t.” That last part was unexpected and said without thinking. She fixed her stare back onto mine.
After a beat, she leaned over the table in a clear attempt to expose parts of her I very much did not want to see. I maintained as much eye contact as I could manage, offering my best forced smile, in the hope it seemed genuine.
