by Sandy Lowe
I leaned up and asked, “What’s so funny?” I was self-conscious then, assuming she was laughing at how quickly I had come.
“I’m sorry.” She sputtered her apology breathlessly. “A couple days ago my mom told me I should find a nice woman like you. I’m not sure if this was what she had in mind, though.”
I groaned and buried my face in her neck. The musky scent of her sweat turned me on all over again. I started grinding slow circles between her legs. “Go out with me?” I whispered the request directly into her ear. I didn’t want to look at her if she was going to reject me.
“I thought you’d never ask.” Samantha erupted in girlish giggles again as I started to assault her neck and chest with kisses. “Hey, Andy?” She pulled me up by my hair.
“Yeah?”
“Welcome to the neighborhood,” Samantha said with such a soft, genuine look in her eyes, I just knew that I had found the perfect home.
Hooper Street
Anna Larner
As streets go, Hooper Street wasn’t much of a looker. Rows of terraced houses bunched together like a set of teeth in a mouth that rarely smiled. White PVC windows, like the white of the eyes of someone gasping for air, stood out starkly against the red brick. The occasional hanging basket, with brash pansies gaudy and out of place, only seemed to make things worse. And there was an unsettling thin breeze, stalking the street half catching the air, like the breath of the dying.
You wouldn’t set out to live in Hooper Street; you would likely just find yourself there. For it was neither city nor suburb; but something in between, a gap if you will, where if you were not careful your hope and ambition might disappear, unnoticed.
So, unsurprisingly, it is not the first place you would expect to find love. Like a daisy growing in a drainpipe it would simply have no business being there.
Abbie Lawrence had no business being there.
It was a Tuesday when I first met Abbie. I know it was a Tuesday because that’s the day in the week the bin men come, whipping up an instant storm of sound as their hungry lorries hiss, jaws grinding, and the empty bins wheeled down the street rumble like passing thunder.
I remember that I was trying not to dwell on why bin day had become a highlight of my week, when over my left shoulder I heard a voice, like a bird on a branch chattering away for a reason unknown to mankind.
“I love getting rid of my rubbish. It’s so—I want to say cleansing, but that makes me sound like a hippie, doesn’t it?” Abbie said, as she swung her rubbish bag merrily into the bin with a satisfied sigh. “Although, you know, I think I would have liked to have lived in the sixties. Peace and love, and all that.”
I risked a reluctant glance in the direction of the chatter, hoping that somehow it wasn’t directed at me. It was. Crap.
“I’m Abbie. Your new neighbour. Okay, that’s an obvious thing to say, isn’t it? I mean if I wasn’t your new neighbour, then I would be trespassing in your actual neighbour’s front garden. But I’m not. Trespassing, I mean. I am your new neighbour.” My new neighbour’s voice trailed off. She looked down.
I dropped my rubbish in the bin, wincing as the glass and tins knocked heavily against the plastic, and closed the lid. I turned fully to face Ms. Chatty Knickers, took an audible deep breath, and bolstered myself to say, “I’m, Jem. Erm…welcome to Hooper Street.” I really did try my best to sound enthusiastic. But as we all know, trying your best is rarely good enough.
Abbie held an outstretched hand towards me. I looked at it longer than was polite before shaking it once, firmly. I would like to think I smiled, but I probably didn’t.
“Jem, that’s an unusual name,” Abbie said. She hadn’t stopped smiling, and now her eyes shone and sparkled, somehow reflecting light on what was the dullest of days.
I gave her sparkling eyes maybe a day or two at most, and her smile no more than a week before Hooper Street worked its magic and snuffed them both out.
I could have explained that Jem was short for Jemima, and that Beatrix Potter had a lot to answer for, not to mention my parents. But to be honest, I hoped that my silence to her question would signal the end of our chat. Nope.
“Your hands are lovely and warm. My hands are always cold.” Abbie rubbed her hands together. “They used to call me Mittens at school because I used to wear them all the time. I much prefer mittens to gloves, although, you know, you can’t do that much in them.” She frowned.
I looked at my watch, blatantly. It was clear she was lost in thought, I guessed about what you couldn’t do wearing mittens.
“Like typing.” Abbie beamed.
I was right.
“Or playing a piano. Erm, or riding a bike—actually, no, you could ride a bike.” She mock held handlebars and pressed on pretend brakes, just to see. “Yes, that would work. Or—”
“Put your hand over someone’s mouth to stop them talking,” I suggested. “They’d be perfect for that, wouldn’t they?” As contributions go—harsh.
“Oh yes!” she said enthusiastically, and then it had dawned on her that I was telling her to shut up, and I watched as she dropped her eyes once again to the floor.
I ignored the sudden ache in my heart.
Being mean didn’t come naturally, although, truth be told, neither did being friendly. “Well, it was really nice to meet you.” I turned without looking at her and went inside.
I sensed that she was still standing there, no doubt bleeding from the emotional stabbing I’d just given her. I felt like a shit. I was shit, a life-hating, cynical arsehole. I wasn’t proud of this, because, well, I wasn’t proud of anything. Oh for fuck’s sake…
I opened my door and stepped back onto the street to find Abbie sitting on the wall of her front garden. I say “garden,” more a dedicated space for bins and weeds than a horticultural triumph. A few doors down someone had placed a bench in theirs. I have no idea why, as the spaces were more of a soul trap than a sun trap. I’d never seen anyone sit on that bench, not even the motley band of neighbourhood cats who picked their way nervously around it.
Abbie was plucking out the debris of moss from between the broken bricks in the wall. It almost looked like she was weeding. Weirdo.
I don’t know whether it was guilt, or even worse, an affliction of conscience, or—madness, probably, but nonetheless I shook my head, took a deep breath, and asked, “So…you want some coffee?” As invitations go—charmless.
Abbie turned and smiled broadly. I felt myself blush.
“Yes! I’d love that,” she said. “Thank you.”
I watched as she clapped her hands together with glee. I regretted my invitation immediately.
“Oh, perfect. I’ve made a Victoria sponge,” Abbie said, excitedly. “Do you have jam? That’s the only thing. I haven’t had time yet this morning to make any.”
Really? Who makes their own jam? Are you for real?
Even if she noticed my incredulous expression, she continued,“I was going to get sugar. But if you have sugar…we could make some jam together. What do you think?”
It was best she didn’t know what I was thinking. Let’s just say I didn’t know how a quick coffee became a home-baking morning.
“You know,” I said as gently as I could manage, “I’ve only time for a quick coffee. Work, and everything.”
I looked quickly away. I knew enough by now to know that her pretty face, with its cute, bunny-like nose, would be all hurt again. Her round, trusting chestnut eyes would reveal her wounded heart. And there it was again—that funny pain in my chest.
Thankfully, we were momentarily interrupted by another neighbour a few doors down, who was dragging her bin, like a dead body, onto the street. She looked tired. In fact, that was the best way to describe the residents of Hooper Street—tired and all that went with being tired for too long.
Abbie waved and called over, “Hello! I’m Abbie.” The neighbour looked as horrified as I felt. Abbie had obviously not got the memo that read “under no circumstance do the
residents of Hooper Street say hello to each other or make any attempt, accidental or otherwise, to be friendly. We do not need to know each other’s names; it is not expected or required.”
The neighbour, without smiling, nodded awkwardly and shuffled indoors.
“It’s not you,” I said, with an apologetic tone. I lied—it was her. “It’s just, well, it’s Hooper Street.”
Abbie frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“Yeah, it’s hard to explain.” And it was. In that moment, I couldn’t be the one to tell someone who still believed in neighbourliness, in life, that there was no point in that belief. No point to anything. I must have gone quiet, drifted off for a second, because I was surprised to feel Abbie’s hand on my arm.
She said, tenderly, “Well, you can explain it to me over coffee. Yes?”
“Sure.” We shared a smile this time. It struck me in that moment that it had been a long time since I had shared anything with anyone.
*
“So how long have you lived here?” Abbie asked, seated on my kitchen stool, swinging her legs, as she looked around my home.
I felt a sting of embarrassment. My home, if that’s what you could call it, made minimalism look indulgent and frilly.
“A while,” I confessed. “I know it’s a little bare. I rent it, so…I guess I didn’t plan to stay as long as I have.” It occurred to me that I couldn’t remember the last time I made a plan.
I handed Abbie her coffee, and she caught me looking at my watch. She looked down again. My rudeness clearly knew no limits.
“So what do you do for a living?” she asked the floor.
“I work from home, doing statistics—boring really. For insurance companies, risk and…stuff, you know.” I shrugged.
Abbie’s eyes widened with delight. “I love statistics!”
Something told me she would. I doubt there was much this girl wouldn’t love.
“I mean, what are the chances of you and me meeting?” Abbie asked, smiling again.
I was beginning to understand she did the smiling thing a lot. I found myself hoping her lightly freckled cheeks would soon ache, forcing her to stop. I shrugged again in reply.
“I mean, it’s got to be, what, a million to one, I bet you? Maybe a million million,” she suggested, taking a sip of her coffee and frowning.
I guessed she was trying to work it out.
“Is that a billion?” she asked.
I was right.
“Or—” she continued.
“So what do you do?” Impatience had got the better of me, plus, let’s face it, she was working out the answer to an unanswerable question that nobody had asked.
“Oh, I’m a self-employed graphic artist. People pay me to draw stuff.”
“Cool.” I was impressed, and a little relieved that her ink-stained hands weren’t from colouring in for fun. From what I’d seen so far, I wouldn’t have put it past her.
It made sense that she was arty. Her tousled shoulder-length brown hair was streaked with pink, and her black jeans and T-shirt were splattered with paint. She smelt of patchouli oil and… I realised I was staring and quickly took a slug of my coffee. “So what brought you to Hooper Street?” I asked, bracing myself for a winding tale of woe.
“Oh well…”
Here we go.
“I’ve always wanted to own my own home. And, well, the ones in the suburbs were too expensive, and it seemed to be only flats in town. I’m not very keen on flats. I don’t know, they seem a bit temporary, don’t they? I wanted to make a home. And then I found this lovely place on the internet…”
Okay, you must have bought it without visiting. Gotcha.
“And I came to see it, and I loved the area, and I thought—perfect.”
Blimey.
“I saw you as well, actually,” Abbie said, blushing. “You were on your way out. I said hello but I don’t think you heard. You looked really hot.” She looked down and sipped at her coffee.
Two things were surprising about her statement. Firstly, that she had considered Hooper Street to be “perfect.” Loony. Secondly, she considered me to be “hot.” I felt my cheeks tingle. Hold on, did she mean hot or hot? Are you flirting? Nah. Sweaty, I’m guessing she meant sweaty. After all, I’m always rushing, why and what for I don’t quite know. Other than, for far too long, I’ve always had the sense that I’m late for something or someone.
“So how about you?” she asked, a smile teasing at the edges of her mouth.
“Same, I guess, without the perfect bit.” I left out the fact that some trollop had broken my heart and I hadn’t cared where I lived, as long as it was miles away from her.
I hadn’t meant to go quiet.
“Well, I’ll let you get back to it.” She slipped off the stool. “Have a good day, and…it was nice to meet you.”
Why? I’ve been shitty to you. I managed to mumble a guilty “Good-bye.” For God’s sake, would it hurt you to be nice, just for once? Just for today?
Just as she was closing the door behind her, I heard myself say, “It was nice to meet you too, Mittens.”
She beamed a smile at me, her eyes shining once again, picking up the light that the room had lost long ago. “You can blow a kiss with mittens better than with gloves, you know,” she said, with a wink. And with that she blew me a kiss, and I swear I felt it land where my heart used to be.
*
Loneliness is a funny thing, and I don’t mean funny ha ha. It is insidious, stealthy. One minute it’s a treat to have your own space, and the next it’s achingly awful. You lose your natural sense of balance. Everything means too much, or perhaps worse, too little. You make poor choices—sleep with the wrong people for the wrong reasons, or sleep with no one for the wrong reasons. You become too loud or too quiet. You overcompensate. You tell yourself you’re fine, that in some way this is a choice, that you’ve won some ethical something, when in truth all you feel is loss. And then you worry that you’ll forget how to be with someone. You worry that you won’t be able to do the girlfriend thing ever again. You worry too much, too often, day and night.
I didn’t mean to lie awake thinking about Abbie Lawrence. Worrying that despite her saying it had been nice to meet me she probably thought I’d been colder than her hands in winter. It was ridiculous therefore to wonder what it would be like to kiss her, to feel her body naked against mine. To imagine the curve of her breast, the softness of her thigh. I didn’t mean to see her face each time I closed my eyes. She was just the over-chatty annoyingly friendly neighbour, right? Let’s face it, she was Disney World and I was Hooper Street, and that was that.
I had just managed to settle myself with that idea when my doorbell rang, frightening the life out of me. It was ten thirty. Nothing good rings your door at ten thirty at night.
Wrapping my bed sheet around me, I drew the curtains back just enough to peer down at my front step. What the…?
Pulling on jeans and wearing my T-shirt back to front so the label irritated my neck, I rushed downstairs and opened my door.
Abbie held up a cake tin towards me and said, “I know, I know it’s late. But I was bored and so I made jam. And then I thought of you and wondered whether you were bored too. So I thought…well…”
My expression must have been surprised verging on what the fuck, for she quickly said, “I don’t mind if you want me to go.” The hurt bunny was back. “Yeah, it now seems like a weird idea. I’ll go—”
“Wait. It is a weird idea. Yes.” I glanced down the street. It was empty. “But now you’re here.” I shrugged. “And you’ve got cake.” I stepped aside.
“Should we have decaf coffee?” Abbie asked excitedly. “Do you have decaf? I don’t drink decaf, as a rule. I mean, it’s weird, isn’t it? How do you make a naturally caffeinated thing decaffeinated? I mean, it’s like taking the stripes off a tiger or the sticky out of glue or…”
She was doing the thinking thing again.
“The fruit out of jam?” I offered
, hoping to steer her towards the reason for her visit.
“Yes! That’s great. The fruit out of jam. I like that.” She was smiling at me.
I couldn’t smile back. All I kept thinking was that a few moments ago I was fantasizing about kissing her, touching her…
“I talk too much, don’t I?” Abbie asked, the sparkle in her eyes dimming.
I had upset her yet again with my silence. “No. Well, yes. But in a good way. A happy way.” I think I then managed a reassuring smile. Okay, when did I start believing happy was good?
“It’s when I’m nervous, you see,” Abbie said, biting her lower lip. “I always talk too much. I can see people’s eyes glazing over, their feet shuffle impatiently. But I can’t seem to stop.”
I remembered how dismissive I’d been to her. I felt sure my eyes had glazed, my feet had shuffled. I felt bad. She was lovely. Weird. But really lovely.
“I’m sorry if by being mean I’ve made you nervous,” I said, accompanying my sincere apology with a blushing smile.
In reply, Abbie slid a slice of cake across the breakfast bar. I watched her take a large bite out of hers. I matched her with an equally huge mouthful. We giggled with greed.
Talking with her mouth full, Abbie said, “You were mean.”
I stopped chewing, holding the cakey mixture, doughy, like guilt, in my mouth.
“But I kind of guessed it might be because you were sad. Are sad.” She wiped her mouth on the pretty gingham napkins she had brought. “After all, happy people aren’t mean, are they?”
“No, I suppose not.”
“So I forgave you, particularly when you invited me for coffee. And, well, when you called me Mittens. I liked that.” She took another bite of cake, and mumbled, “Do you have a nickname?”
To her credit, she hadn’t asked why I was sad. She hadn’t pried, and I liked her even more for that.
“Do I look like I have a nickname?” I shook my head at the thought.
