Page 54 of Power Moves
Archie hands my phone back and I ignore the buzz in my solar plexus as his fingertips brush mine. I hope that muscle memory fades quickly. I can’t keep getting hot flushes around him now that our game has ended.
‘Are you sad?’ I ask, sitting down on a bench seat.
Archie sits next to me. ‘What about?’
‘That I won the New Friends Game. Don’t pretend like you’ve forgotten about it just because you’re bummed about losing.’
Archie looks out the window. Beyond the glass, the lights of Sydney are flashing past, streaks of neon in an inky sky. He knocks his knee against mine. ‘I was never worried about the debate.’
‘Spoken like a true loser.’ I flash him my most brilliant smile and he retaliates by bumping me with his shoulder. The heat that radiates off this man is nonsensical. I need to get out of his orbit.
‘Where are you going?’ he asks as I get to my feet.
‘I’m going to stand,’ I say, grabbing the metal bar above my head to anchor myself. ‘The end of the game means the end of inappropriate physical contact, and it’s too hard to avoid your body if I’m sitting next to you.’
Archie shakes his head. ‘So we’re going back to how things were before?’
‘Yep. Platonic hostility.’
‘With an undercurrent of sexual tension.’
‘Ha,’ I laugh. ‘No way. I have already deleted those memories from my brain. If you think you’ll be able to get me all hot and bothered after all that funny business, then you are mistaken. I have already forgotten the past week ever happened.’
‘It went too fast,’ mutters Archie.
‘It did,’ I agree. We could have really messed with each other if we’d put more effort into it, but we were both too busy with work, which is ironic now that I think about it.
The train jolts to a stop and I accidentally stumble into Archie. He places his hand on my waist to steady me. Memories suddenly flood back like a tsunami. His fingers on my thigh, his breath on my neck, his lips on my shoulder.
Archie removes his hand and I try to exhale as surreptitiously as I can.
When the train pulls up to our station, Archie stands and waits at the door as I walk out. He pauses at the escalator too, to let me traipse on first. Through the giant glass windows the stars are twinkling like specks of glitter in a snow globe.
I wonder where Archie lives. I know it’s somewhere in the Eastern Suburbs, but now I find myself wondering if he needs to catch a bus, like me, or whether he can walk home from here. In all our years of working together, we’ve never ended up on the train together. Or maybe we have? Maybe I didn’t notice him. Maybe he didn’t notice me.
We walk to the train station exit and I smile sunnily, still on a high from my win. I bet he lives in a new-build apartment; a sleek two-bedder with a bench press in the spare room and a Weber barbeque on the balcony. He cooks a scotch fillet for dinner with baby chat potatoes and broccolini, a drizzleof olive oil, Maldon pink sea salt and cracked black pepper. Sometimes—but not all the time—he treats himself to a beer. His laptop is always open.
I wonder how much of this is true. Archie is one of those guys who, at a surface level, is so easy to read. He’s a jock, he’s competitive, he makes dumb jokes—he could be any guy on your screen during the nightly sports report giving full credit to the boys. But dig a bit deeper and you realise that he’s a labyrinth of surprises. I still can’t get over the fact that during our time living together on campus, he never showed any visible interest in politics, the media, or even the use of a human vocabulary. He was just a silent giant, who nodded when he could have said yes and grunted when he could have told his mates to shut up.
There’s a breeze that bites my skin as we walk outside and I cross my arms to stave off the goosebumps.
‘What are you doing this weekend?’ asks Archie, abruptly coming to a halt.
‘Nothing,’ I lie. I’m actually going to the festival with Jessie this weekend but I can’t let him know that or he’ll drop all the dodgy headlines he’s probably been saving for a moment of weakness and I won’t be able to do a thing. ‘What areyoudoing this weekend?’
‘Nothing.’
There’s something strange in his expression. He better not know about the Digital Revolution budget blow-out.
Eventually—possibly minutes later—Archie speaks. ‘Need a drink?’
My brow creases. ‘Of what?’
‘Whisky, moonshine, tea, water?’
‘I’ve got a water bottle,’ I say, pulling it out of my handbag. Actually, I am kind of thirsty. My throat is suddenly very dry and scratchy. Archie watches as I fumble with the lid but eventually I get it off. The cold water slides down my throat and the relief is instant. ‘Imagine if you were trying to ask me out,’ I laugh.
‘Imagine,’ agrees Archie. He shifts on the balls of his feet and I wonder whether he’s trying to get away from me but doesn’t want to reveal his route home.
