eight
They began to kiss again. This time for longer and with added passion. Both continued in a world of their own making. A world there, opposite us, close enough to touch, or disrupt. The kiss lasted for minutes; it was quite uncomfortable to watch, but it was impossible to ignore. It felt awkward, like we had all walked in on a private moment.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Click.
It was at that moment that she began to sob in front of me. Silently. Her shoulders shaking. The tears streaming down her cheeks, hardly showing any emotion. I tried to reach out to her, to touch her hand, but she recoiled, as if my mere touch would harm her.
She allowed the tears to fall, smearing her mascara, trickling down each pale cheek. I wanted to wipe them away, but I knew there was nothing I could have done to help her.
— nine -
Everything was beginning to make me angry. It should have been me on the table opposite, not with the woman he was with, but with her. I should have been there, doing those things, the same things as he was with her.
Her tears wouldn’t cease, and her silence somehow made them seem all the more significant — like she was crying for everyone.
I have never been able to handle the tears of other people. I have walked out of rooms when I shouldn’t have done as close friends of mine have allowed the tears to fall from their eyes in front of me. I have asked family members to stop crying at funerals. It’s not that I am against emotion or the outpouring of sadness. It’s the physical secretion, the physical act, the physical act of expelling something from deep inside. It’s like the force of gravity has pulled each tear from within the body, back out, down towards the earth where it belongs. It’s the constant reminder of the weight that envelops us all — the return to nothingness. To dirt.
“Why are you crying?”
“…”
“Please, why are you crying?”
“…”
“Please, answer me …”
“…”
The other couple had stopped kissing and had started to tuck into their own food after the bored woman had interrupted them with it. After each mouthful they would stop to giggle and whisper. I don’t think they even noticed us sitting opposite. I don’t even think they knew we were there.
“Please, why are you crying?”
“…”
“What’s wrong?”
“…”
“Please, I’m concerned … Are you okay?”
“…”
She wiped away the tears from her eyes. She looked up at me, she looked over at them, all the while wiping the tears away, the woman’s heel still clicking.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Click.
I couldn’t really think of anything to say. It seemed impossible to say the right thing. I wanted them to leave, to leave us alone. Suddenly, she turned to look at me.
“I’m sorry.”
Before I could reply, before I could blink even, she rose from her seat and walked over to their table. She addressed only him, ignoring the woman, without even as much as a derisory glance towards her. The man and the woman stopped what they were doing and both looked up at her simultaneously. The man had a nonplussed look upon his face, probably thinking there was a problem with his order or something.
She addressed him only.
“Do you remember me?”
There was a long pause.
He looked at the woman next to him, then back at her, then back at the woman. He looked nervous, rubbing his thumb into the palm of his hand. The woman’s eyes began to narrow and her whole face started to contort. He looked back up at her.
“Er … I’m … afraid … I’m afraid I don’t, sorry. Er … Have we … Should I?”
“You tell me.”
“I’m sorry, I’ve never seen you before in my life. I fear you may have mistaken me for another person, someone else in your life … I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry?”
“Yes.”
“You’re sorry? That’s all you can say? Sorry? Don’t you remember me at all?”
“I’m sorry, but no, I clearly don’t. I clearly don’t remember you from anywhere, I have never seen you before in my life. Now, we were having a private conversation. I’m sorry, but …”
“So, you just want to leave it like that?”
“If you don’t mind, I’d rather, yes.”
“No. I want you to tell me who I am. I want you to tell me who I am. You have to tell me.”
“I’m sorry, but I seriously have no idea. Can you please leave us alone now?”
“No. Do you not remember who I am?”
“No, I do not. I have never set eyes on you before in my entire life. You have clearly mistaken me for another person. Please leave us alone.”
I was beginning to feel more than ill at ease with the whole situation. The bored waitress behind the counter was leaning on her elbows, chin in palms, looking over toward them, smiling, happy to be watching the burgeoning spectacle before her, happy, at last, that something was eventually happening that day. I remember uttering the word ‘no’ twice, but it went unheard in the ensuing mêlée. I watched as she threw the glass of water over him, the plates crashing to the floor, breaking into shards and fragments, scattering across the tiles into far-flung corners of the café. The blonde woman’s deafening scream nearly burst my eardrum. The man, now soaked, his white shirt sticking to his skin, rose to his feet and pushed her to the floor. She immediately jumped back to her feet and continued her attack, swinging for his face, trying to pull his hair and scratch his cheeks. The other woman began to fight back, too, holding her, leaning over the table to grab her flailing arms, knocking it over in the process. More screaming and shrieking enveloped the room.
“You do remember me. You do remember me. You do remember me. You do remember me. You do remember me. You do remember me.”
And as soon as it had began it was over. She ran out of the café, turning right, up St. Peter’s Street towards Essex Road. I pulled some money from my pocket, I have no idea how much, but it was more than enough to cover what we had ordered. I left it on the table and I ran out after her, leaving the man and the woman from the whitewashed office block and the bored woman behind the counter to clear up the mess. I ran after her. I could see her, running erratically, people stopping to watch, to ask her if she was okay, as she made her way, clumsily up towards the busy Essex Road. I shouted after her. She continued to run away, heading for wherever it was she was heading. All I could do was follow her, up towards the Essex Road. As I drew nearer I could hear her sobs. When she stopped at the top of St. Peter’s Street with the junction of Essex Road she looked frantically from her left to her right, over and over again. Essex Road was, as usual, unbelievably busy, and she was clearly unsure of which way to go. I shouted to her. Passers-by in the street turned to look; cyclists and people in parked cars, people sitting outside cafés. As I finally got to her I reached out to put my hand on her shoulder. She turned to face me, screaming as if I was trying to attack her. I immediately let go of her and she wriggled free and, without looking, ran straight into the road. The number 38 bus screeched to a shuddering halt, throwing many of its crammed-in passengers, who were standing by the doors and in the aisles, to the floor. I could hear screams and much shouting. The bus was inches from her. The whole of Essex Road had stopped doing whatever it was it was doing and everything was focussed on her, standing in the middle of the road, facing the number 38 bus. She began to laugh, running to the other side of the road. I stayed opposite her and began to walk. I acted like I wasn’t with her, like I was a spectator, but everyone within the vicinity knew that we were together. I followed her once more as she continued to run, this time with quickening, assured footfalls, with purpose and determination. When I had walked far enough away from the initial scene in the road I too began to run. I ran as quickly as my legs and body could carry me, after her, on the opposite side of Essex Road to her. Heading up towards Balls Pond Road.