Crazygirl Falls in Love

by Alexandra Wnuk

  “Anytime,” he grins.

  “I guess I owe you one, as much as I hate the thought.”

  “You can make it up to me right now. I would like to request a race.”

  He lunges into a hamstring stretch. I start jogging on the spot to warm up.

  “Why?”

  “Because I think I can beat you, and then you won’t act so smug all the time.”

  I stop jogging on the spot in shock. I can’t believe I’m hearing this. Me? Smug? I should never have let him help me with that stupid dog.

  “But I… But you’re… You’re the smug one!” I protest.

  He laughs.

  “What do you say Young Peanut, a race to settle it?”

  A brilliant thought strikes me (or at least, I think it’s brilliant),

  “I say let’s make it interesting.”

  “How so?”

  “If I win, you will never call me babe, honey, sweetie, Young Peanut, chick or any other of the over-used, saccharine laced terms of endearment you’ve come up with since last Friday.”

  “And if I win, I can call you anything I like and you have to make me a sandwich.”

  I squint suspiciously,

  “What kind of sandwich?”

  “Bacon, ham, meatballs, cheddar, lettuce and tomato. Extra tomato. And I prefer avocado spread to butter.”

  “Okay, you’re on.”

  We shake hands and I notice that he’s wearing one of those crazy running outfits again. The fluffy orange headband has been replaced with a back to front Giants baseball cap, the baggy yellow shorts are back but underneath are a pair of fuchsia thermals.

  We walk to the pavement.

  “Where are we running to?” He asks.

  “My place. Mr H. lives in the apartment below mine and I need to get him some clothes. It’s a half hour jog from here, so a fifteen minute sprint. Do you know the Starbucks on Queensway?”

  He nods.

  “I live round the corner. First one to touch its front door wins. Ready?”

  “I’m always ready babe.”

  I give him a look.

  “What? Might be the last time I get to call you that.”

  I wipe rain drops out of my eyes and motion for him to line up against the crack in the pavement.

  “On your marks,” I say as we crouch to sprint position, “get set... Go!”

  We take off down the trail and Blue quickly gains a two stride lead. The path is slippery which is stopping me going full throttle. Blue doesn’t seem like he’s giving one hundred percent either. We’re striding as opposed to sprinting. Five minutes in and I start to consider an overtake. The hill is coming up soon. That’s when I’ll strike.

  I start to monitor my body to see how I’m doing. My legs are starting to burn and I’m out of breath, but the main thing is that I don’t need to throw up and my lungs aren’t hurting. If my throat and chest were stinging like my legs I’d be in a world of trouble. Everyone has different pain thresholds and I’ve learnt that I can push through any pain except that suffocating, agonising lung burn (and throwing up, because, well, how are you meant to keep running when you’re dealing with projectile vom spew?).

  We round the corner and Blue is still two steps ahead. As we begin the incline I turn the intensity up a notch, and suddenly I’m in front. He isn’t a good hill climber and I maintain my lead, but on the down we’re even again. Fuck. As we round the corner of Queensway I’ve started to succumb to Death by Lung Burn. I picture Blue’s arrogant smile which gives me the strength to ignore the misery, the sting, the pain. I’m not sprinting so much anymore as lunging. The Starbucks is a block away. I’m so focused that I don’t notice Blue disappear from my side.

  I touch the door and can’t quite believe it. Yes, yes, fucking yes! I start celebration jumping, Rocky Balboa-styles. It takes me a moment to register I’m the only one here. Retracing my steps I find my running buddy sitting on the curb, massaging his knee.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “My knee, I tore my ACL a few years ago playing rugby. Some idiot stood on my foot as I landed from a jump.”

  Oh my.

  “Here, let me help you up.” I lift him by the arm, “do you want to come up to my apartment? It’s a few metres away. You can grab an ice pack.”

  We start to walk. The skies are so dark it’s actually a little scary. Blue’s arm is slung around my shoulders as we limp along.

  “So who won?” He asks.

  “We’ll call it a draw.”

  “Can I still have a sandwich?”

  “No.”

  “Can I still call you babe?”

  “No.”

  “The force is strong with you Young Peanut, but you are not a Jedi yet.”

  “You need to stop.”

  I usher him upstairs,

  “Is that the old man’s flat?” He asks.

  “Yeah, he’s in flat one, I’m in two. Don’t worry about his clothes by the way, I’ll get them and jog over. You need to ice that knee, I saw it once on an episode of House.”

  “House?”

  “Sure, all my medical knowledge comes from the telly.”

  We walk into my hallway and the floor is immediately soaked with the waterfall running off our skin and clothes. I sit him down on the sofa, lifting his leg onto the coffee table. I walk quickly to the kitchen and grab my icepack out of the freezer. Back in the sitting room I place it as gently as I can on his knee.

  “Thanks,” Blue says.

  “No worries. Rest up here for a bit, I’ll be back soon.”

  I’m not too chuffed about the idea of going back out there, but a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. Before I leave for the General’s apartment I take my soaked iPod from out of my pocket and throw it onto the coffee table.

  It takes me a bit longer than I had anticipated to get back to Little Old Lady’s house. I’m knackered from the race. Bloody Blue. When I arrive I’m very happy to see a kind looking vet crouched over Captain. The General is still soaked but he’s at least got a towel around his shoulders.

  I tell them I can’t stay because I have a strange and obnoxious man in my apartment. The General takes the bag of clothes I hastily threw together,

  “That’s dash decent of you lass. By jove it was the darndest thing getting caught in that storm, but it looks like Captain’ll make a full recovery. Now I best get back to Mrs Harold.”

  Guess he’s hallucinating again. He turns to Little Old Lady (who is looking horrified) as I reply,

  “Okay Mr H, keep it real,” and we pound fists.

  I’m shattered by the time I get back to my apartment. I feel really, really cold even though my body is sweating, I feel goosed even though I’m sober and I have a craving for a warm strawberry milkshake which has literally come out of nowhere. I drag myself up the stairs (literally, I grab the banister with both hands and pull myself up each step).

  Blue is still on the sofa, resting his bung leg on the coffee table. He looks happy as a lark, my iPod headphones in his ears. He’s bopping his head.

  “I like your music babe, lots of MTs.”

  Too exhausted to fight the babe thing anymore, I sigh,

  “Thanks. What’s an MT?”

  “Mega Tune. You’ll eventually learn all the DJ acronyms once we start hanging out more.”

  “That’s not gonna happen.”

  “But we need a re-race. I’m keen to win sandwich rights.”

  “Oh geez,” I moan, but I’m smiling, “seriously, hit the showers. Leave your clothes outside the door and I’ll put them in the drier.”

  A minute later I hear him yell from the bathroom,

  “Babe! Time to dry my clothes!”

  I crawl over to the closed bathroom door (my muscles are cramping and I can’t seem to stand upright anymore). I pick up his soggy kit,

  “You’re incorrigible!” I yell through the door, but I doubt he hears over the running water.

  He’s singing Why Why Why Delilah. You know, h
e actually has a really nice voice. Reminds me of Tom Jones, but maybe that’s just because of the song.

  I walk into my teensy laundry and turn on the drier. I set it to the shortest setting (quick dry, 29 minutes) in the vain hope that I can get this guy out of my apartment quickly.

  Eventually he walks out of the bathroom wearing just a towel.

  Wowza.

  I turn my eyes away and blush.

  “I got to… grab shower… too.” I mumble shyly as I hobble my aching body into the bathroom.

  It’s like clockwork. Whenever I find someone attractive the dumbest, most unsexy statements seem to fly straight outta my mouth. Not that I find him attractive. No way, he’s a dick. So full of himself. He’s not hot. No no no, he most certainly is not.

  I jump out of the shower and throw on some clothes. Jeans, Ugg boots over jeans and a big, warm, Dad-jumper. I stole it from my father last time I visited home. I quickly check my reflection in the mirror. Should I put on some makeup? No, that might make him think that I’m trying. And I’m not. I couldn’t care less what he thinks. But I do look a little hobo at the moment… I replace the Dad jumper with a tank top and cardigan, and walk back into the lounge room.

  He’s still listening to my iPod, still shirtless, flicking through a copy of an old Marie Claire. I walk over to sit beside him and casually pick up my phone, not expecting anything too exciting.

  My heart skips a beat. It’s the Stranger.

  Hola chica, how are you? Are you going to Arianna and Emma’s party tomorrow?

  I don’t hear Blue say,

  “Can I just say, you are the nicest M&M I’ve had the privilege of meeting.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t catch that?” I ask, looking up from my phone.

  I have a huge smile plastered on my face. I can’t help it. I’m absolutely thrilled as I look back down and start replying to the Stranger.

  “Ah, nothing.” Blue says good naturedly.

  Friday - Dublin and Rusty

  It’s Chloe calling. I rush into an empty meeting room and answer.

  “Hey Chlo!”

  “Hi, are you okay? Your messages sounded a bit dysfunctional yesterday.”

  “Yeah, doing better thanks. I was so depressed after Wednesday, but then I realised life can always get worse.”

  And I tell her about my adventure in the rain with Blue, the General and Captain, and how horrifyingly stiff my body feels today (I had to take five Diazepam chased with a shot of tequila just to manage the walk to the Tube this morning).

  “So when did he end up leaving?”

  “We had to wait for his clothes to dry, so I put on Sex and the City. I thought that might get him out of the apartment quicker, but it didn’t. Turns out he likes it, so we ended up ordering Domino’s. He’s okay actually, a bit odd, but okay.”

  “You’re kidding, right? The same guy whose death you’ve been plotting?”

  “Well… He’s DJing at V Festival and said he can get us in, no charge.”

  “Nice.”

  “So you excited about tonight?”

  “Sure, Zuma has great sushi.”

  “I mean about seeing Antonio, not the food!”

  “I don’t know, I guess.”

  “Just give him a chance.”

  “Pen, you realise this is the most blatant agenda pushing I’ve ever been subject to?”

  “Chloe…”

  “I know, I know, you’ve made your opinion very clear. I’ll try to keep my mind open and reserve judgement. But why is it always a choice between hot but conceited, or down to earth but ugly?”

  I consider re-explaining the Dating Scale to her but she’s already heard my various relationship theories, plus I have to get back to work. Antonio is a 9.5. That’s why he thinks he’s good, it’s because he is. Lucky for her Chloe is an 8. That bloody Dating Scale. The only way to move up is with plastic surgery, money or a personality paradigm shift.

  ***

  “Why why WHY-Y-Y… Delilah!”

  Unlike Tom Jones’ love child, I sing loud and off-key. It sounds like an operatic mouse being strangled, but I haven’t been able to get the song out of my head since yesterday.

  I’m hurriedly hunting my apartment for green things. Green trousers, a green headband, green jewellery. Could I dye my pink bunny ears green? Scratch that thought, no green food dye in the house. The search continues. As I’m rifling through my drawers, throwing out anything non-green into a big pile on the floor, I hear my phone. It’s Mags.

  “This is Penny speaking,” I chirp happily.

  “Penny, I’m hiding in the toilets,” a small whisper replies, “I think I need a phone save.”

  “Really? But I trained him up so well? At least I thought I did...” I sigh, my good mood gone like a fart in the wind, “talk to me baby.”

  “I can’t understand what Sam’s saying. He keeps going on about his G-folk and his low-rider and swag and racks. And how I got J. Do you know what J is?”

  Mother of god.

  “He’s just really nervous and trying to impress you. Give me a minute.”

  We hang up and I immediately call Stalker.

  “Yo, Mack Daddy!”

  “Sam, why are you talking ghetto to Mags?”

  “Don’t sweat it, my brother from another mother.”

  “Sam, I’m female.”

  “Yeah, I know. It’s supposed to be funny. You know, like a comedian.”

  “No Sam, not funny, and you’re about to blow it with Mags. Go back to your normal voice and ask her about her week,” then I add, “you do know you’re a skinny white guy, right?”

  I hang up. Poor Mags. I hope Antonio is having more luck with Chloe. At this rate we’ll all be single forever. Especially me. Besides Chloe coming to the wedding with me tomorrow I’m a dateless freak this weekend. As excited as I was that the Stranger messaged yesterday he didn’t actually ask me out. In fact, he didn’t at all ask me out. He said he was travelling for work and might not make it to the party tonight. Then the messages had ended. I had asked,

  You’re travelling for work? That’s exciting, where are you headed?

  And my question had gone unanswered. Grrr! Why did he message me in the first place? Just to check in? Just to say, ‘Hi, remember that gut-wrenching experience I subjected you to on Wednesday? Just wanted to remind you of it!’

  He didn’t even ask what colour I’d be wearing tonight, and I guess you yourselves are wondering why I’m currently obsessing over green. Well you see, fed up with developing feelings for married men who neglect to tell her they are taken (and take off their wedding bands to boot), Emma decided to colour theme their Re-Re-Housewarming this year. If you’re single, you wear green. If you’re casually seeing someone, amber. If you’re in love and extremely unavailable, you dress top to toe in red.

  Maybe if the Stranger had asked me to go with him tonight I would have worn green mixed with orange (despite how unsavoury I find that particular colour combination) but since he didn’t I say screw him. After my chat with Chloe earlier I had decided to neglect Schmermesco just a little longer and had popped out to buy as many green things as I could find, swinging past my favourite burrito joint on the way (you know your life has taken a turn for the tragic when you’re on first name basis with the guys at Taco Express).

  I returned to the office with an extensive collection of green accessories (earrings and bangles and chunky necklaces), a green top and new green Choos. Hopefully the Stranger comes tonight and sees me in all my finery. It will be a declaration of being single, being independent, and being happy. What exactly do I need him for anyway? For love? Companionship? Children? Someone to help pay my scary mortgage and field weekend visits from Jehovah’s Witnesses? Basically the only thing a guy like him offers is the perk of escaping this stupid social stigma of ‘insufferable singlehood’, when in reality, if it wasn’t for society’s ugly and unwanted pressures there’d be a lot fewer dismal ends to dismal relationships, way fewer divorces, and
a lot less lawyers like myself making money out of said divorces to help pay off our scary mortgages.

  Wait a minute… social stigma bad, but leads to divorces, which gives lawyers like me work, which helps pay off my mortgage, which is good… Okay okay, I’ve lost myself in the circular logic of this rant, but I am unwavering in my original point to all this. The Stranger is a butt crack, and I am going to wear so much green it’ll look like I’ve been pressing myself up against Shrek all day.

  Before I leave for Emma’s place I do a quick once over in the mirror. My long blonde hair is pulled up into a French twist. Green faux leather trousers hug my legs and my new top is a thick strapped, swamp green number. Green bangles cover both arms. I am in love with my new Tiki earrings and my emerald green suede and satin ruffle heels. I look at the reflection with satisfaction. I'm drowning in slime, and that’s great, ‘cos I am single, I am fabulous and I will pick up another single, fabulous and equally green clad man tonight. If I’m lucky he’ll be hot, want to be my boyfriend, likes to wake up early on Saturday mornings to buy pastries, and doesn’t judge me for my thirteen-cups-of-coffee-a day habit.

  I Whatsapp Mags and Chloe the same message as I’m waiting for the train,

  Hope your date is going well! If you’re keen swing by Emma’s afterwards. 16 Clifford Lane, Belsize Park

  ***

  “…so I hand Emma my empty Coke bottle. I mean, what else was she gonna do? It’s not like there are any toilets on those mountain roads and when you gotta go, you gotta go, right?”

  I give Dublin a wink and take a swig straight out of the bottle of champagne I’m holding. I was drinking from a flute earlier but they’re just so damn fiddly, and it got annoying pouring glass after glass.

  “How… quaint,” Dublin replies.

  He’s looking at me with a mixture of aversion and amusement, like he doesn’t quite know what to make of me. I get that look a lot. Emma has overheard and shoots me a furious stare from the group she’s speaking with. When I arrived to a house full of people and a frantic Emma (who is always the perfect host), she asked me to talk to Dublin because he doesn’t know anyone. I was reluctant – he’s a snake as far as I’m concerned – but because of the whole ‘walking-out-on-Emma-at-the-fundraiser’ thing, I felt like I owed her. Plus, it’s better than some of the jobs the other girls got, like walking around with trays of food or being coat collector. Not that Emma would let me walk around with trays of food again after last year, when I ended up eating all the hors d’oeuvres myself.