Posted on April 4, 2015April 4, 2015 by Patricia Ann McNair4.4.2015 Journal Prompt Image from The Sterile Cuckoo April 5, 2015: When night comes… Like this:Like Loading... Related
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I thought he was a fucking idiot. He was my best friend, but still I thought that. I said his head was all mince and muppet. I told him she wouldn’t even know for chrissakes and so what would be the bloody point. He said he’d know and that was the point. That was the mince and the muppet I was talking about.
He planned to just sit there the whole night. I said I thought it was a bit creepy and he wouldn’t win any brownie points even if she did know. ‘It’s like a test,’ he said, ‘Lovers do that. They suffer for what they love and they set themselves challenges.’
‘In the fucking middle ages they do,’ I told him. ‘Jesus, have you lost your fucking marbles, Cob, or what?’
It was all on account of a girl called Angie. She was new to the area and she’d turned a few heads since arriving. I don’t mind admitting that I’d given her a second look, too. She was clean and curvy and she had a way of looking at you that said something more than she meant to. And she talked soft as feathers so you had to lean in to hear what she said. And leaning in you could smell flowers on her skin and strawberries on her breath – that’s what Cob said anyways.
‘Like flies round shite,’ Cath had said, but she was just and justly jealous.
Cob had walked her home after school and I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d asked to carry her books like he was something out of fucking Tom Sawyer. Fact is, he was out of his head in love with her – whatever that means when you’re sixteen and seven days, I told him.
‘The whole fucking night, come wind or rain or shine,’ he said.
I laughed and I said he was talking pure bollocks – which is a whole lot worse than ordinary bollocks. ‘It’s the bloody night,’ I said. ‘Ain’t nothing gonna shine, ‘cept your moon-face as you look up at her closed curtains like a love-sick fuck.’
I couldn’t persuade him. Once Cob got something in his head, there was no shifting it. Not calling him crazy, or frightening him with stories of men with axes and no chins, or bears coming down from the hills to tear him apart. I shrugged and I said if that was love then he was welcome to it.
But thing is, I didn’t really mean a word of what I said. I wanted to tell Cob that I understood. That I knew what it was like – to be held so tightly in the idea of someone else noticing you, and wanting them like Cob wanted Angie, and to be driven a little mad by it. I felt that way – which was fucking stupid and normal both at the same time.
It rained in the night. I mean it really rained. It was bloody torrential. I heard it bouncing off the tin roof of our shed, like grit and stones thrown in a shower. I got up and the night was dark as pockets and moon-missing, and I thought of Cob sitting cross-legged on Angie’s back lawn, and soaked to the skin, and cold, and in love. And it hurt a little; in fact, it hurt a lot, cos the thing is I wanted Cob to be sitting like that on my back lawn, but I could never tell him that, not and still be best friends.