“Once I tried to write a book.” I let the words sit between us, filling the silence.
He snorted. I turned to him, and he turned to me. We were way to close. I could see the little scar on his forehead, that scar was my fault. That was the scar he touched when he was nervous or lying. That scar was his excuse to get out of P.E for 3 months. He grew his hair out to cover that scar, I was glad when he got it cut. His face wasn’t complete without the small pale line.
“Why are you sad?”
“I wish I knew the answer to that Chris.”
“No one ever knows the answer.” He dropped one arm over my shoulder and whispered in my ear. “I’ve lost my car keys, I think I will have to sleep here tonight.” He was very pissed.
“You don’t have a car.” I whispered back. I may have been tipsy but I wasn’t stupid.
“Oh.”
“And you only live a couple of doors down the road.”
“But!” He held a finger in front of my face; it wobbled as he thought of a good excuse. “But… I am drunk.” Was the conclusion he came to.
“Yes, you are. I’ll walk you home.”
“But I want to sleep here, on your sofa. I like your sofa.” I pulled him up and zipped his coat up. “Your sofa is blue.” He dragged out that last word, he sounded like a toddler learning how to talk.
“OK, let’s go while there is still any point in going to sleep. You have work tomorrow.”
“But I don’t want to.” I pushed him out of the door and arm in arm we sauntered down the middle of the road. “Shall we sing?” He asked loudly, his eyes on a rogue carrier bag that was drifting down the street.
“No.”
“It’s not impossible, for me to cry.” His voice was perfect, even in his drunken state, he had an impressive voice, no one could argue with that. “It’s just the hardest thing, I’ve ever done.” The words to his favourite song sounded hauntingly good in the cold December air. The only thing that could have ruined the moment would be if one of us was sick. Thank god that didn’t happen.
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