We laughed until we cried.
They had this game they played at parties there – The
Yellow Phonebook of Death.
They’d take it in turns to hold the Yellow Pages
against a body part – arm or leg… extra points for face
or crotch – then someone else would run at them, a giant
hunting knife in hand, and plunge it deep into the book –
hard as they could.
Honestly, it was great to watch.
Legitimately dangerous. There were always wounds.
They played it topless, Ava.
Even my friend found it most rousing.
She was drawn to Snake Boy that night – he’d done
volunteering with a charity in India once, or said he had.
They hooked up. She passed out naked in his satin
sheets.
At some point later in the night he took a few guys
in to have a look, lifted the covers for them to see her
lying there.
I knew, Ava.
I saw them all go in. But he assured me they just looked
and didn’t touch.
Next morning she and I sat on the
doorstep in the early sun – drank tea, breathed in the
cold grass smell, the brisk sea air beyond,
and she was happy, Ava –
said that he was sweet, had told her she was pretty, fun
and cool. Had kissed her neck, had checked that she
was fine, had taken things so slowly – she had liked it.
Mostly.
What would have been the point then, Ava, to have said?
I hugged her tight. She took the next train home.
The opposite of error is error still. Fuck off Hardy.
Snake Boy was lost – there was this fear behind
his eyes that made it difficult to be angry with him. Every
movement seemed performed…
thing is,
you do a thing – however unconvincingly –
you’ve still done it, right?
It wasn’t until years later
