Sardines Meet

I’m following Petra’s instructions, trying to be aware of the moment, feeling my body, paying attention to all my senses, drinking in my surroundings.

If I’m honest, I reckon it’s all mumbo jumbo really, this mindfulness lark. I’ve come through life so far without it, existing perfectly happily as a regular human being … although ‘happily’ might be an exaggeration, thinking about it. After all, I am seeing Petra.

I don’t get how her suggestion can help me speak to people, though, make friends, fall in love. But in for a penny, in for a pound, I suppose. I’m here now. I might as well go for it. What’s the worst that could happen?

Where to start? The thumping, thudding bass notes maybe – oppressive almost. The neighbours must really be enjoying it, I don’t think. I know Harry’s invited the ones from upstairs, but those below … man! I can imagine the light bulbs swinging away like crazy. The folks might even be pounding on the ceiling with a broom handle. We wouldn’t hear it. Not with this din.

The wine’s cheap, I know that much. But then so is Harry. I wonder whether I’ll feel calmer if I just down a few more glasses – plastic cups, rather. Better keep count: two glasses in the bar beforehand, and that was my third. Four or five should do it. Tastes awful, though. I can feel the fur forming on my tongue already. Maybe I’ll switch to spirits.

Let’s see what there is in the kitchen. If I can get there, that is! Sardines have it good!

“Excuse me. Sorry. Excuse me. Sorry? What? I can’t hear you!”

She’s nice. Lovely face. Are those eyes green? Difficult to say in this light. Hang on – where are you taking me?

“Excuse us! Sorry!”

Ah, the balcony. Okay…

Now that’s lovely. The summer-night air on my skin, cooling, hairs standing on end.

Mmm. Jasmine, floating up from the street. I’ve always loved that: you’re strolling along and you pass by jasmine spilling over a wall. Smells like hope and happiness somehow. Mixed with something else here.

She leans in. The something else hits me: her scent – nudging the jasmine aside. What is that? Soap, sweat and … her! I feel a little intoxicated, dizzy.

“I said: haven’t we met before?”

Now I can hear her – the music’s muffled a bit by the windows, though I can still feel the bass throbbing through my feet.

She’s close. Apart from the scent of her, there’s a hint of alcohol, too. Her voice is a little slurred, husky, as if she’s been cheering at the top of her lungs.

The space between us would feel too narrow in any other context. Here, though, on this balcony, I don’t feel uncomfortable, and nor, evidently, does she. At least she’s not leaning away.

“I don’t think so. I’d remember.”

Is that too much? Sounds a bit creepy. But she’s smiling, so it must be okay. She’s got a chipped tooth at the front there. I like it! Or I like that I’m so close I’m able to notice it.

She leans in again. Her bare arm on mine. Warm. No, hot. Burning. No, warm. Make up your mind!

“That’s such a cliché … but I like it!”

“Plenty more where that came from!”

I don’t know what’s got into me. That sounds like banter. I never knew I could.

She laughs. Glorious! That husky voice powering a real honk of a laugh. Not embarrassing, though, or fingernails-on-a-blackboard shudder-inducing.

“Anyway, ‘haven’t we met before?’ is a bit of a cliché too, isn’t it?”

“Guilty!”

She laughs again and takes a swig of beer from the bottle she’s been holding, which I haven’t noticed until now. Petra would tut, no doubt.

So, green eyes, chipped tooth, hair … blond, swept back, plaited. She’s too close for me to get a good look at her body. But maybe that’s healthy. It’s normally top of my list, now relegated, by circumstance. And talking takes over.

“You know that other cliché – about eyes meeting across a crowded room?”

I nod, hanging on her huskiness.

“Well, halve it: My eyes met you across a crowded room. You didn’t have much say in it, of course!”

That laugh again. It sets me off.

She puts a hand on my shoulder to support herself. She seems a little bit tipsy, but far from paralytic. I put a hand on her bare shoulder, feeling the warm smoothness of her skin. We stand like that for an instant – dovetailed, essentially.

As if by augury, I guess what’s coming next. Her shoulder dips slightly under my fingers and her lips are on mine, her tongue tracing the line of my mouth. I’m surprised at the gentleness. I reciprocate and can taste the beer, plus a faint trace of cigarette.

It only lasts a few moments. She uncouples, steps back. I think I’ve done something wrong and I’m on the point of apologising.

“I’m very forward, sorry,” she says, smiling sheepishly; that chipped tooth again.

“We shouldn’t be backward in coming forward,” I suggest.

She cups my chin in her hand; I know that she’ll be feeling the stubble.

“The king of the cliché!”

“Guilty!” I say, deliberately echoing her from a few minutes ago.

She grins, recognising that. She fixes me with those almost magically-green eyes, appears to be considering something.

She shakes her head and pushes past me. My heart sinks.

But she turns, holds out her hand. In it is her phone. She hands it to me.

I nearly drop it in my haste to tap in my number.

“I hope you’ll answer when I call,” she says, a little doubt in her voice. “I’d like to speak to you properly.”

I don’t have the presence of mind to ask her to stay so that we can speak … now. Perhaps she wants to be fully herself when we do. I’m okay with that – more than okay. Because I want to be fully myself, too. And at the moment I just feel like a teenager on uppers.

My banter escapes me.

“Sure!” I say, kicking myself for not giving my response the weight the situation deserves. I needn’t worry.

She comes close again and pecks me on the cheek. I put out a hand to touch her but she’s gone, dissolving into the crowd inside. I’m left grasping air.

Without her, I lean on the balcony railing and return to inhaling the jasmine, feeling the bass notes through my feet.

“Shit!”

I didn’t ask her name! I didn’t get her number. And I’m going to be on tenterhooks waiting for her to call ... if she does at all.

‘Tenterhooks’. I chuckle to myself. Another cliché. She’d like that. She’d laugh.

I remember her laugh, and her husky voice, and her easy humour, and her eyes, and her chipped tooth, and her plait, and her scent, and the smoothness of her skin, and her warmth, and her lips, and her taste.

There was little agency on my part really, but Petra will be proud of me anyway.

Man – I’m proud of me.