I don’t understand it neither. It makes no bloody sense. Not to nobody. He’s all screwed up and I reckon he always will be and that’s obvious. Even I can see that. But, fuck, if I don’t love him. Shirley says I can have my pick and she says there’s Markie Wilson and he’s got a job at the bank now and he’s making good money. ‘You can tell by looking at his shoes,’ she says, and right enough they is always buffed up to a glossy shine. And Shirley says I could have him if I wanted and iall I’d need do is to give him the green light.
That’d be fucking sensible and I agree. Markie’s hands is soft and clean, and he’s saving up for a car and maybe a house. And he ain’t far off being pretty, and Shirley says he kisses like a film star and he don’t tear buttons on your dress when he’s putting his hands under your clothes. He’s a keeper, Shirley says, and I could have him with a smile.
I know that. And I know Eddie is everything the opposite of Markie Wilson. My mam says he’s a waste of space and breath, and Shirley agrees with my mam. He ain’t even got a job. Leastways nothing steady or proper. He puts in a couple of hours shifting stones up at the quarry now and then, and he delivers papers some days when they’re short at the shop, and bottles of milk if he’s up before the crack. He won’t ever amount to more than that, my mam says, and I know that.
But here’s the thing, when he’s looking at you across a crowded room, well, it’s like the call of God or something. And when he takes off his shirt and he’s hammering out a tune on the old pub piano and he’s singing in that rough brown voice of his, I’m telling you I lose all reason. No one else seems to notice. It’s like with dog whistles and when you blow ‘em there ain’t no sound ‘cept the dogs hear something. Same with Eddie, and he’s playing and singing and I’m the only one can hear him.
He’s a little drunk by the end of the evening and I help him home. It’s like an agreement we have. I pick the keys out of his pocket and I let us into his apartment. I don’t switch the light on – don’t need to now – and I take him through to his bed. I undress him, starting with his shoes and his socks. Then his shirt and his trousers. He sits on the edge of the bed like he’s a child. Then I get undressed and I slip in the bed beside him.
He kisses like a drunk and he fucks like a drunk also. Sometimes, he says my name, and sometimes it is another name he says. He don’t even know. And when he does that, I think of Markie Wilson and how he’d never make that mistake, not nohow, and I think for just a moment that my mam and Shirley are right. Then Eddie finishes, and it’s like he’s in hell and in heaven both at the same time. And he cries out, “Fuckin’ Jesus!’ and he rolls from me and falls like a stone into sleep.
In the morning he’s different. In the morning his head hurts and he says I’m an angel and he says that he loves me. I should be up by then or I’ll be late for work. He says for me to stay. He says we could have the day in bed, the whole goddamn week in bed if we like. And he ain’t drunk when he says it, but he fetches a bottle of vodka from the freezer compartment of the fridge so that he soon is drunk again.
Later, mam says over that she just don’t understand. And she says a day in bed wont pay no bills. And Shirley wants to know every small detail of what we did, and she blushes when I tell her, and she says again that I could have Markie Wilson if I wanted and live happily ever after and comfortable. I just shrug and I say maybe she’s right and the thing is I know she’s right and it makes no nevermind cos there’s Eddie and I can hear him in my head even when he’s not there.
January 14, 2015: Sometimes we saw him.
Patricia Ann McNair 
I don’t understand it neither. It makes no bloody sense. Not to nobody. He’s all screwed up and I reckon he always will be and that’s obvious. Even I can see that. But, fuck, if I don’t love him. Shirley says I can have my pick and she says there’s Markie Wilson and he’s got a job at the bank now and he’s making good money. ‘You can tell by looking at his shoes,’ she says, and right enough they is always buffed up to a glossy shine. And Shirley says I could have him if I wanted and iall I’d need do is to give him the green light.
That’d be fucking sensible and I agree. Markie’s hands is soft and clean, and he’s saving up for a car and maybe a house. And he ain’t far off being pretty, and Shirley says he kisses like a film star and he don’t tear buttons on your dress when he’s putting his hands under your clothes. He’s a keeper, Shirley says, and I could have him with a smile.
I know that. And I know Eddie is everything the opposite of Markie Wilson. My mam says he’s a waste of space and breath, and Shirley agrees with my mam. He ain’t even got a job. Leastways nothing steady or proper. He puts in a couple of hours shifting stones up at the quarry now and then, and he delivers papers some days when they’re short at the shop, and bottles of milk if he’s up before the crack. He won’t ever amount to more than that, my mam says, and I know that.
But here’s the thing, when he’s looking at you across a crowded room, well, it’s like the call of God or something. And when he takes off his shirt and he’s hammering out a tune on the old pub piano and he’s singing in that rough brown voice of his, I’m telling you I lose all reason. No one else seems to notice. It’s like with dog whistles and when you blow ‘em there ain’t no sound ‘cept the dogs hear something. Same with Eddie, and he’s playing and singing and I’m the only one can hear him.
He’s a little drunk by the end of the evening and I help him home. It’s like an agreement we have. I pick the keys out of his pocket and I let us into his apartment. I don’t switch the light on – don’t need to now – and I take him through to his bed. I undress him, starting with his shoes and his socks. Then his shirt and his trousers. He sits on the edge of the bed like he’s a child. Then I get undressed and I slip in the bed beside him.
He kisses like a drunk and he fucks like a drunk also. Sometimes, he says my name, and sometimes it is another name he says. He don’t even know. And when he does that, I think of Markie Wilson and how he’d never make that mistake, not nohow, and I think for just a moment that my mam and Shirley are right. Then Eddie finishes, and it’s like he’s in hell and in heaven both at the same time. And he cries out, “Fuckin’ Jesus!’ and he rolls from me and falls like a stone into sleep.
In the morning he’s different. In the morning his head hurts and he says I’m an angel and he says that he loves me. I should be up by then or I’ll be late for work. He says for me to stay. He says we could have the day in bed, the whole goddamn week in bed if we like. And he ain’t drunk when he says it, but he fetches a bottle of vodka from the freezer compartment of the fridge so that he soon is drunk again.
Later, mam says over that she just don’t understand. And she says a day in bed wont pay no bills. And Shirley wants to know every small detail of what we did, and she blushes when I tell her, and she says again that I could have Markie Wilson if I wanted and live happily ever after and comfortable. I just shrug and I say maybe she’s right and the thing is I know she’s right and it makes no nevermind cos there’s Eddie and I can hear him in my head even when he’s not there.