‘And?’ I looked down my nose at HIM. I couldn’t tell whether I was genuinely pissed off or not. The performance had just become a part of my personality. If nothing else, I can be pretty sure I’m not happy, I thought vacantly.
‘You know I care about you, right?’ HIS voice had developed an edge to it. Though maybe that was an act as well.
‘Like how?’ Not that I really cared.
‘All kinds of ways—’
You, in the black, move along. The warning sounded over the loudspeaker of the patrol ship. Move along.
As the vehicle started to descend, the figure in black leapt up and took off running. Not swiftly enough, though. A mechanical arm reached down out of the patrol ship. The perp raised both hands. If you’ve got your arms at your sides when they grab you, they get pinned there and you’re more likely to get injured. The patrol ship departed with the black-clad figure dangling helplessly in the air beneath it.
‘Fucking horrible.’ HE looked up.
‘What’ll happen now?’
‘A formal warning, and a fine.’
‘You’ve been arrested before, right?’
‘Once. The cops will make an example of you whenever they feel like it. They can always find something to charge you with afterwards.’
‘How did it feel?’
‘Being carried up and away with my arms spread out like that… It reminded me of the opening to that Fellini movie.’
Meant nothing to me.
‘You don’t know much of anything, do you. No wonder you can’t hold down a job.’
Once every six months we have to sit for the employment examination. It gets recorded on our ID cards. What the penalty is for not showing up, I don’t know.
‘I pass the exam every time,’ I protested half-heartedly.
‘And? What occupation category do they give you?’
‘Waitress. There’re requirements for that too, you know. Height, for example. Your girlfriend couldn’t get that job.’
‘That girl’s always getting engaged, just so she doesn’t have to take the employment exam. They allow a certain period for marriage preparations. This conversation’s going in circles. What a drag.’
‘Were you two engaged?’
‘I don’t want to say.’
Then they must’ve been.
I started chewing a fingernail. HE took that hand in HIS and squeezed it gently. ‘Quit being such a pill. It’s a real turn-off.’
I remained stubbornly silent.
‘OK then, who was that call from that one time?’ HE asked.
‘Gimme a break. What are you even talking about?’
‘You got a phone call that time we went to your place together. You didn’t put it on screen because it was a man, right?’
‘The caller had the picture switched off, that’s all.’
‘Who the hell does that?’
‘Plenty of people. I do it all the time myself. When I’m not feeling presentable, for instance.’
What a nightmare.
‘And when would that be?’
‘Like when I’ve got bedhead.’
‘You always keep the picture switched on when it’s me. Even when your hair isn’t done.’
‘That’s because it’s you.’
I want to go home. Alone.
‘And you always wanted to get rid of me right after.’
‘You’re imagining things.’
How do I wrap this up?
‘You want to go home, don’t you? Because I’m asking all these questions.’
A series of dull thuds sounded behind us. A man was hitting a woman over the head with something heavy and hard. Again and again. The woman had her hands up. We heard one final scream. She collapsed. Covered in blood.
The woman wasn’t moving. Her attacker was muttering something under his breath. Serves you right… That’s what you get for… that kind of thing.
The man started to walk away, not even bothering to wipe away the blood spattered all over him. No one could move. The patrol ship didn’t arrive for another two minutes.
I thought HE might faint. HE’s anaemic, and HIS already-pale face had gone white as a sheet.
‘It’s so… vivid.’ HE was gazing at the bloody aftermath of the attack.
‘Let’s get out of here.’
‘Hold on a sec. That was so intense, I was rooted to the spot. Almost like it was the real thing.’
‘It was real.’
‘Yeah?’ HE stepped closer to inhale the scent of blood, but the cops shooed HIM away. It was a pose anyway. HE has virtually no sense of smell. Can’t smell or taste much of anything. I’m the same way. Maybe that’s why kids nowadays don’t care about eating. And why our everyday lives feel like a scene from a TV show.
‘I end up putting a frame around everything I see,’ HE murmured, seemingly to himself. ‘It makes it seem fresh, helps me relax as a viewer.’ Then HE turned to me and grinned (at least I think it was a grin). ‘Man, I haven’t felt this amped in ages. That really wasn’t staged, huh. Where are the TV cameras? I want my mum to see this.’
I kept silent. I can’t explain it clearly, but I had the sense that HE was on the verge of some kind of mental breakdown.
The TV cameras never showed up.
But there was a thirtyish man taking an (amateur) video of the scene.
‘I’m gonna go ask him.’ HE was back to HIS usual cheerful self.
‘For what?’
‘A copy.’
There was a sound from the front hall. ‘What a racket,’ I thought, trying to focus my attention on the screen; I was watching Gone with the Wind. Seemed like my mother had arrived home, and right at the finale – the scene where Rhett Butler leaves and Scarlett O’Hara collapses on the stairs. I always end up crying at that part. No matter how many times I watch it, I end up crying.
Ever since I’ve been old enough to really understand the world (these past two years or so), I’ve never once cried at a scene in real life. Whenever something serious happens, I just convince myself it’s no big deal. I do my best to avoid any kind of shock. I’ve been fooling myself this way for long enough that it’s become a habit, and now nothing affects me. But in the world of make-believe, I can still relax enough to let flow my tears.
I heard my mother go into her room.
I wept buckets and pondered Scarlett’s fate. Would it be possible for her to win back Rhett’s love? No, I have a feeling he’s the kind of man who never changes his mind once it’s made up. Not like the softies I’d always dated. The kind of men you see in the movies would be hard to handle in real life, though – they’re so fixated on their own masculinity. And sometimes that male pride, that proper behaviour, it all starts to seem ridiculous. If they could just get over themselves, then everything might be a whole lot simpler.
I pressed the button and the screen went black.
‘Doing OK?’ My mother came into the room with a box of tissue paper in one hand, removing her make-up.
‘Yeah, you know, I’m fine, thanks.’ I felt awkward, like I didn’t know what to say. I always get that way when I’m talking with my mother.
‘What have you been up to lately? Anything interesting going on?’