August Falling

by Les Zig

  Julie leans against the car, doubled over, like she’s catching her breath. Sweat glistens on her chest, and her breasts have spilled from her dress in the exertion, but she’s oblivious as she rises up to me, and links her hands around my neck. She kisses me once, lightly. I fold my arms around her. She kisses me again, then holds my gaze. I might usually look away in shyness, but I stare right back at her. The connection I feel to her now is something I wouldn’t have expected to feel for weeks, if not months—if ever. She might be somebody I’ve always known, but only now just rediscovered again.

  11

  Sunday morning, I wake to see Julie lying alongside me, her back to me. I run a finger over the slope of her shoulder, down her arm. She rolls, yawns, and leans against my chest. I drape an arm around her. She kisses my chin, my cheek, but then checks the clock radio.

  ‘Aunt Zoe time?’ I ask.

  ‘Yeah.’ Julie hauls herself up and pushes my hair from my face.

  ‘Want company?’ I ask.

  ‘That’s really sweet,’ she says, ‘but I’ll be fine. I’ll call you later, okay?’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘I really shouldn’t have obligated you the way I did yesterday.’ Julie kisses me. ‘I’m sure.’

  After she’s gone, I shower and have breakfast, then sit at my laptop, expecting—finally—I’ll find the words that have eluded me the last year. But still nothing, and now even more so. I sit back, take a deep breath.

  Keys jingle at the front door, and then it swings open. The first thing that trots in is a small black staffy on a leash—Jet, panting like a steam train, abnormally long tongue poking out from her scrunched-up face. She sniffs the floor, sees me, and her tail wags. She bursts forward, the leash snapping taut, and yanks in a stumbling Gen, a couple of shopping bags swinging from her right arm. I leap forward, like I could catch her. She stops when she sees me. Jet huffs and tugs against the leash. I continue to stare at Gen, like she’s a burglar I’ve interrupted in the middle of a break-in.

  ‘You’re home,’ she says.

  I look down at my arms, my chest, my legs. ‘Apparently.’

  ‘Very funny.’

  Jet springs forward, snapping the leash clear from Gen’s hand. I kneel as the staffy is a ball of motion around me, licking at my hands, circling my legs, then licking at my hands some more. Finally, she settles and allows me to scratch her behind the ears.

  ‘Want to give me a hand?’ Gen says.

  I try to rise but Jet nips at me for attention. Gen moves past us and dumps the shopping bags in the kitchenette. She leans over, hands on her thighs. I run my hand up and down Jet’s back. She’s a barrel.

  ‘Jet?’ Gen says. ‘Jet!’

  Jet trots over to her, although she gives Gen a reproachful look. Gen sinks onto one knee and rubs Jet up and down.

  ‘There’s a few other things in the car,’ Gen says.

  Not a few but four more bags of groceries, a box of beer, and a couple of loads of laundry. By the time I’ve brought it all in and put it away, Gen’s made us a couple of coffees, and filled a bowl of water for Jet. Gen’s also flipped the picture of Mum and Dad, so it’s not pointed at the wall. I turn it back before joining her on the couch.

  ‘Come on,’ she says.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You and Julie? You dated Friday, you were together again yesterday.’ Gen gasps. ‘Were you together again or were you still together?’

  I shrug, and try to straighten my lips from a grin I can’t control.

  Gen slaps my arm. ‘I know it’s like one date, but I’m happy—you’re moving on.’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘August, there were times I thought you’d never move on from That Cunt Lisa. Now, you’re moving, you’re finally moving. I don’t mean to be condescending, but you don’t know how much this means to me. So you like her then? Well, obviously.’

  ‘We … click. I mean, we have some things in common, but it really does feel like I click with her.’

  ‘August, sometimes that’s the only explanation you need. Relationships aren’t a list of pros and cons, or what you do and don’t have in common, or chemistry, or a combination of all of the above. Sometimes, it really comes down to how well you fit together.’

  Gen’s joy—instead of being infectious—burrows into me. I was happy last time. Julie flashes into my mind, this beautiful blonde who’s absorbed all my quirks, hasn’t blinked, and all that’s overridden by what happened with Lisa.

  ‘You were hurt before,’ Gen says, reading my thoughts. ‘But that was then. This is now. Get over Lisa. She is a cunt. It wasn’t you. It’s her. You know what it comes down to?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You say these things don’t happen to you, but you know what? This did. Enjoy it. See where it goes. She might do things that turn you off her—be an unimaginable bitch or fart in bed, and you might be happy to move away from her. Or you might get serious. You don’t know with relationships.’

  ‘Maybe that’s what I’m scared of, that she’s this worldly person with all this life experience, that she knows all this great and interesting and even practical stuff, that she picked herself up out of a shit life and made something of herself, and I’m just this guy. If I had a life CV, it wouldn’t say much.’

  ‘If she doesn’t accept you for who you are, she doesn’t deserve you. That’s what relationships are about. Don’t prejudice it because of what happened with That Cunt Lisa. Not everybody is That Cunt Lisa. You don’t have to be anybody but yourself. You going to see her today?’

  ‘Who? Lisa?’

  ‘Julie, you goof.’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Well, enjoy it. Don’t overthink it.’

  But I do overthink it after Gen leaves. I don’t mean to, and I try to distract myself, but the thoughts are a meteor shower. I shuffle my scene cards around, then shuffle them around some more and, for a few seconds, some pattern begins to emerge from the chaos. But then it evaporates. Giving up, I decide to take a walk.

  I only plan to go around the block, but drift—seemingly aimlessly—for over ninety minutes, passing from one suburb to the next until, through swaying gums, I see the mesh fence that encloses Eden Park Primary School.

  Eden Park has always been an affluent suburb, with a range of two-storey houses with pristine lawns and manicured gardens. Eden Park Primary School is a reflection of Eden Park’s lineage and opulence, starting as two L-shaped buildings facing one another—like puzzle pieces about to fit together—but then being refurbished into an elaborate series of modern buildings interconnected by walkways, with an atrium at the centre. Only the asphalt playground with its faded basketball court and the adjacent playground with worn swings remain untouched, like a testament to the history of the school.

  My feet slow and my legs tremble. It’s strange that I’m here, and I try to work out whether it was random or chance. No, it couldn’t be random—not here. I’ve come by design, however subconsciously, because I’m still trying to make sense of everything that happened, and sometimes the only way of doing that is by going back to the beginning.

  But this is the beginning I never had.

  This is where Bobby would go to school. I’d looked forward to it—imagined walking him to the school, him trotting off when he saw his friends, and then playing at recess and lunch. I drift closer and cling to the fence as I press my face up against the mesh. The playground is empty; the wind flutters the overgrown grass and the gums around me shake.

  I see Bobby on the asphalt playground, running around playing tag with other kids. Their shouts and cries are excited and joyful and uninhibited—the sounds only kids can make, because they have no idea of the world outside the walls they occupy. They have no idea of how ill-equipped you can become for what’s out there. They have no idea how people can lie and deceive and hurt you. They have no idea of the dangers of everyday life.

  Come the end of the day, I would stand at the gate and wait for Bobby to emerg
e. I’d take his backpack from him, and as we walked home he’d ramble—in that way kids recount stories—about what he learned and what he did. Even with the problems I had with Lisa, that would’ve been as close to the perfect life as I could’ve had.

  But I never got to walk Bobby to school.

  I fall back a step. I haven’t made sense of anything by coming here. I don’t know if there’s even sense to be made. As I back away, the school tugs at me, laying claim on the future I wanted with such yearning, such desperation, that—fleetingly—I still wish that it could be, that it might be. Then it’s gone and I’m walking back home, but still carrying the weight of the past.

  By the time I turn back into my street, a blister has formed on my right foot. But I feel okay. The walk has burned away my restlessness, so that’s something. As I hobble up the stairs, I hear the neighbours shouting. I ignore them, let myself in, switch on the light, and head for the kitchen, preparing to make myself a sandwich.

  Somebody knocks at the door—I think it’s Julie, and run my fingers through my hair and make sure my shirt’s straightened. This would be about the time she’d be here if she left her aunt’s the same time she did yesterday.

  But it’s Ronnie with a pizza, a sixpack of Coronas, and my notebook.

  ‘What’re you doing here?’ I ask.

  Ronnie slaps the notebook into my chest. ‘Doctor Who marathon, remember?’ He brushes past me. ‘You never gave me an answer, and since you never do anything anymore, I thought I’d join you.’

  ‘I’m writing.’

  Ronnie lays the pizza on the armrest of the couch, and the beers on the couch itself, so he can gather all the cards from the coffee table, assembling them into a deck. ‘How’s that going?’ He puts the deck on the laptop keyboard, then pushes the laptop to the edge of the coffee table. ‘And get rid of this. Please.’ He gingerly picks up the dog-eared photo of Lisa and Bobby by the corner.

  I snatch it from him and lay it on the kitchen counter, by the picture of Mum and Dad.

  I’ve turned my back for no more than a few seconds, and Ronnie’s already set himself up—he lounges on the couch, pizza on the coffee table, two beers out of the sixpack—and now he has the remote in hand to flick through the channels to find the Doctor Who marathon.

  Within minutes, I’m sitting alongside Ronnie, eating pizza, drinking beer, and watching Doctor Who, although I remain conscious of the time. Ronnie prattles on about the various incarnations of the doctor, when he stops mid-sentence.

  ‘How’d Friday go?’ he says.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Have sex?’

  ‘What is it with you?’

  ‘I’m just asking.’ Ronnie nibbles on a slice of pizza, then washes it down with a swig of beer. ‘Well?’

  ‘We had a good night, okay?’

  ‘No need to get defensive. It’s good, you know, seeing you doing something, instead of being the recluse. I like to see that.’ Ronnie claps me on the back. ‘And I mean that—no smart comment.’ He clamps his lips, as if to prove that’s the case.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Maybe we could double date.’

  ‘You’re seeing somebody?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Doesn’t a double date require that both parties have partners?’

  ‘You know Suzi?’

  I frown.

  ‘Works with us—in the far corner. Always in lycra. She jogs. Or cycles. Or something.’

  I can’t picture her—she’s one of the many faceless operators at the call centre.

  ‘Anyway, I was thinking of asking her out.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘I’m preparing the pitch.’

  ‘The pitch?’

  ‘The sale—what to say, how to approach it, all that. Tell me how this sounds. I go up to her. I say, “Hello”.’

  I wait for something more.

  Ronnie holds his hands out, as if to say, What do you think?

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘The Sistine Chapel wasn’t painted in a day. I’m still working out the rest.’

  A strange sense of relief floods through me. It takes me a moment to work out that some of my insecurity has shredded—for all his brashness, Ronnie’s equally as hopeless in approaching a woman he’s interested in. Just like me. It’s nice to know I’m not as hopeless as I think.

  Ronnie downs the rest of his beer and shoves the empty bottle on the coffee table. ‘Need a piss. Want another beer?’

  ‘Sure.’

  He’s no sooner gone than my phone buzzes in my pocket—a message from Julie telling me that while she told herself (yet again) she wouldn’t get upset (yet again) after visiting her aunt, she did get upset and is just going to go home.

  I’m unsure what the protocol is here—tell her she’d be better off coming over for some company (and kick Ronnie out), surprise her at her place (which would involve trains, or a taxi, or asking Ronnie to drive me), or to respect her space (even though last night, her space incorporated me).

  I’d like to see her, and when I try to work out whether that’s desperation, I conclude it’s that I like being around her. But maybe that’s desperation anyway and the only measure of whether desperation is okay is the extent to which your partner finds it acceptable.

  ‘That her?’ Ronnie says, when he gets back. He holds out a beer for me.

  ‘Yeah.’

  I take the beer, have a drink. Ronnie slumps onto the couch.

  ‘So you’re like the couple who live in each other’s pocket after the first date?’ he says.

  ‘No.’ Then, more firmly: ‘No. She has an aunt in a home she visits. Julie gets down after visiting her. She was telling me she’s going home.’

  Ronnie chuckles. ‘And so it begins.’

  ‘What begins?’

  ‘The testing.’

  ‘What testing?’

  ‘Relationships are a series of tests—well, not from men. Men see something, they want it, they go for it. Men are simple that way. Stupid. Like a dog who’ll keep chasing a ball you throw, even beyond the point of exhaustion.’ Ronnie lifts the beer to his lips, but thinks twice about taking a drink. ‘Women set tests. They don’t even realise they’re doing it. It’s a dynamic you establish with them. They’re upset—do you a) respect their space, b) ask if they’re okay, or c) console them?’

  I sit up. ‘Which do you do?’

  ‘You don’t know because the answers vary depending on who’s asking the question. Or it might change depending on the situation. There’s never a concrete answer. It’s like two plus two equalling five, six, and seven.’

  ‘They’re all wrong.’

  ‘In a relationship where the women define the reality, the only truth is their truth, and what that truth is in that moment. Pass their tests, move onto the next round. Fail them, and they’ll remember it forever and hold it against you. It’s like tending a nuclear power plant always ready to blow, and never being sure how to keep it stable. You telling me Lisa never did that? Of course she did. I remember your complaints. My longest relationship went three years. A month or so before we broke up, we were arguing—I don’t even remember over what, but I do remember that she brought up that I was ungentlemanly. That’s what she called it: ungentlemanly. Her prize evidence was that two years earlier when we were at a restaurant, my meal came out before hers, and I started eating. Two fucking years! Men are stupid. Women are insane. And, together, we continue to make more stupid, insane people. Is it any wonder the world is the way it is?’ He shakes his head. I return my attention to my phone.

  Surprising Julie at her place is probably too grand a gesture. Respecting her intentions is noble, but is it also indifferent? I message her that I hope she’s okay and it might be better if she comes around, so she doesn’t have to deal with this alone. Just after I send the message, it occurs to me that she might think I’m propositioning her for sex, since that’s what happened yesterday.

  ‘What did you say?’ Ronnie asks.

&nb
sp; ‘Offered that she could come around if she didn’t want to be alone.’

  ‘The middle ground. Smart.’

  ‘Wasn’t a tactical decision. It’s the right thing to do.’

  Julie responds that she’s fine, and asks if I’d like to get lunch tomorrow, at about 12.15. I answer, Sure, and then impulsively add a smiley face.

  ‘Well?’ Ronnie asks.

  ‘She said she’s fine but asked me to lunch tomorrow.’

  ‘And you said yes?’

  ‘That’s a bad thing?’

  ‘You answered before the electricity had even fed the message she sent you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You responded too quick, okay? Should’ve given it a minute.’

  ‘No, no, no.’ I hold out my hands. ‘I’m not doing this. I did it with Lisa. Too many rules. I just want to be me.’

  ‘That’s crazy talk.’

  ‘I’ll risk it.’

  Julie’s message is all the assurance I need:

  Great.

  12

  When I walk into work, it’s under a cloud of self-consciousness, like everybody knows I’ve gone on a date. But nothing’s changed. Boyd stands in the corner, arms folded across his chest, as he surveys that everybody’s in on time; Sam gives me a thumbs up as he checks holidays (Rio, this time); and Ronnie’s watching porn on his computer. I remember Ronnie mentioning his interest in Suzi, and check the corners, but all I can see above the cubicle walls are a gleaming, bald head in one, a turban in another, and a wealth of coppery hair in the last.

  I sit in my chair, put my headset on and scan my call list. The first name that comes up on my screen is Harold Weekes—the guy who told me to get fucked last week. It’s coincidence he’s come up again, since our lists are randomly doled out, and I had hoped he’d end up with somebody else. I could skip him, but then I think, Why should I? I take a moment to check myself—no tension across the shoulders, no shortness of breath, not even a discordant thump of my heart—and dial the number.

  ‘Hello!’ The same rough voice.

  ‘Hello. Mr Weekes, please?’

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘I’m calling on behalf of the Heart Disease Research—’