She had not heard from him in three days so she called him up. He didn’t answer, and she thought he must be busy. Then she messaged his phone and waited for his response.
The next evening he came around and they sat on the settee in the lounge. ‘Why didn’t you reply to my phone calls and texts?’ she asked. He said he meant to. ‘Don’t be one of those guys’ she told him. He was trying to adjust the dials of his wrist watch, ‘what do you mean?’ ‘One of those guys who pretends like he doesn’t care’ she replied, feeling the emotion rise inside her. ‘I’m not’ he said simply, and unbuckled the strap. ‘Don’t’ she repeated tersely – she was close to tears, and felt silly. ‘I won’t be, trust me’ he muttered. ‘Are you smiling?’ she snapped, angry with him too.
While he was ordering pizza in the next room, she calmed down a bit. She had a bad conscience and hoped he hadn’t taken her little outburst to heart, although there was still a part of her that hoped he had. When he came in again he handed her back the pizza menu. ‘How long will it be?’ she asked after blowing her nose. ‘Half an hour’ he replied. Half an hour was longer than usual but she kept quiet, ‘what did we order?’ He pointed to the menu. ‘I see’ she said, he had forgotten she didn’t like chicken on pizza but again she said nothing. He was reaching for the remote on the side table. ‘Would you like a drink then?’ she offered in a more cheery tone. He said he wanted orange squash.
In the kitchen she found a clean glass and poured him a measure of syrup. As she was doing this she noticed the skin on her right index finger was peeling by the nail. Once she had filled the glass with cold water from the taps over the sink, she tried to bite it off with her teeth but she couldn’t do it, so she put the orange squash on the draining board and closed her eyes. With the thumb and forefinger on her left hand she tore the skin away. It surprised her how far she managed to tear it back, and she was shocked to see how quickly the blood rushed to the surface.
In the bathroom she ran some warm water and bathed her bleeding finger, wincing at the stinging pain. With a paper towel she wiped the excess blood away. The wound was still fresh when she had finished, so she put on the biggest plaster she could find, and walked back through the kitchen, collecting his drink as she went. ‘You alright?’ he asked as she sat down with him. ‘Yes, fine’ she replied, feeling silly for a second time in hardly anytime at all. ‘What did you do to your finger?’ he persisted. ‘You want me to kiss it better?’ He was looking at her and grinning. She blushed. If only I knew when he was kidding, she thought.
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