Us, Again, Always

2024

You have come back to me for the third time tonight. Each time we try to say goodbye to one another – me at my door, you at the gate – we begin yet another conversation and you return, drifting closer to me, back up the path. Your daughter swings on the gate and huffs for you to hurry up. We always do this.

She tugs your coat, hassles you for your phone so she can play her games on it. When you take it out to give to her, the screen also scowls for your attention with 8 missed calls from your husband.

“Shit…” you swallow, typing something quickly back. Probably a long string of sorry and love you and pretending something came up. But you’re smiling… smiling, smiling. You always smile that fake smile and tell me, “Sorry, Leah. I really do need to go now.”

I smile too. I nod. I know. We always do this. I hug you, as always, and wish you goodnight. It's goodbye for now, but as much as you always need to go, I know you’ll always come back to me.

2014

I kiss your forehead while your husband is out of the ward. I whisper against your skin, congratulations, and well done.

“No, see, ‘cause they mean different things in this situation” I explain, “Congratulations on the birth of your baby, and fucking well done for pushing the little bugger out!”

Your laughter is a single chuff of exhaustion.

“No, really.” I say, “And don’t let him forget that he needs to look after you. Remember how much you pampered me when I got my appendix out?”

But before we can dive back into memories together, your husband comes back in with his coffee. He clears his throat to reassert his place in the room. I've run out of smiles for him, having already given him all the pleasantries I have in me: I had even hugged him to wish him congrats.

Your husband has his little ways to signal that I should go – that my time with you is up. I've been trained by the look he gives me. He's developed such a knack for it over the years that he doesn't even have to make the excuses anymore –  

So...anyway...Becca and I had better get the dinner on.

Leah, you’ll not want to miss your bus.

Have you not run out of things to say to each other by now?

We should let you go.

So Pavlov's dog leaves the ward with her tail between her legs.

2012

Your other bridesmaids have deserted their posts. You and I are alone in a Club Tropicana toilet cubicle. I rub your back as you vomit. I gather up your long blond hair in my hands, unclip the netting of your trashy Poundland veil and throw it on the floor.

You groan. You’re trying to talk and I’m trying to hear you over the thud-thud-thud beat from the club and the shrieking of drunk women by the sinks.

“Eh? What did you say?”

I dare to hope that you said,

I don’t want to do this.

I stroke your hair. Whisper that you don’t have to, even if I am only indulging my imagination. You shake your head, grinding your forehead into the back of your wrist.

I take a deep breath and become the devil on your shoulder, “It’s not too late.”

Emotion heaves its way up your throat and you wail.

“Hey hey hey. Becca, Becca, love. It’s okay.”

“Shit, oh fuck! I don’t– I don’t want–”

But you do not complete the sentence. And I am not brave enough to ask.

You won’t look at me as you wipe your mouth, your eyes. “Sorry…” You smear trails of mascara across your cheeks. “I’m just drunk. Being stupid. Sorry.”

“Yeah… you’re just drunk. Come on. Let’s go find the others.”

You need a straight woman full of straight-talk – someone who will lie that you love him and he loves you, and paint sweet Pinterest dreams of your gorgeous future together. I would need my EpiPen if those words ever passed through my mouth.

You know it too. When your eyes finally meet mine, you look away again quickly.

2010

When you got with him, I tried to avoid you. I tried to finally get over you. I screamed into my pillow until I lost my voice. I’ll never tell you this, of course. I just miserably reply to your texts until I feel the dull fist of self-hatred beat against my ribcage.

2008

I kissed a girl and I liked it. The taste of her cherry chapstick

The music is breach-of-the-peace loud. The taste of your breath is apple Sourz. House-party measures. You keep your eyes on mine as you sing.

I kissed a girl just to try it

You take my hands. You put them on your hips as you sway. I think you’re trying to get me to see your body in a different way – I feel it in the pulse of you. Yes, we’ve changed in front of each other so many times, we’ve seen each other in our underwear, but have I considered your hips like this before? I would never admit it to you, but I have. So many times.

Us girls we are so magical, soft skin, red lips, so kissable

This song is sharp with teasing pain for folk like me. At parties, the boys quickly learned to gather around to watch us girls when it played, and I quickly gathered experience in kissing. The only time anyone likes a lesbian. But those beautiful three minutes would always end when the song faded into the next track and the hungry boys would converge on the girls once more. Midnight chimes for Cinderella.

I take your hand, hoping for the clock to stop. If you still want to kiss a girl – just to try it – in private – then I’ll know you’re serious.

You glance towards the door. Your lips mumble against my ear,

“Let’s go upstairs…”

2006

You and I have our routine. We always sit on the carpark wall after school – the one by the traffic lights where we will have to part ways to go home. In S1 we’d trade Pokémon cards, in S3 we’d get hyper-drunk on cans of Relentless. In S4, we’re almost sixteen, so we try smoking. You leave a dark red lipstick stain on my cigarette when you light it and pass it to me.

We always make a point of bitching about boys. I’m your favourite person to talk to about this – probably because I fly into dramatics whenever they’ve wronged you, or when you’ve changed your mind about one or he’s become repulsive overnight.

I make you laugh with how much I hate all the spitting, the snot, the way they scratch their balls like cavemen. You enjoy the joke I always crack, even though you’ve heard it a million times — I’m allergic to nuts.

The conversation always returns to how girls are better. You always start with, “I’m not, like, a feminist, or anything, right? But I just think girls are more, like, hygienic. They smell better and they put, like, actual effort into their looks.”

We stay out talking far too late. I’m not allowed round to your house – you’ve told me that your Dad’s a neat-freak, but I know that’s not the reason. Eventually we run out of cigarettes to smoke. The streetlights try to imitate the glow of the setting orange sun.

I want to kiss you.

“Shit!” you say suddenly. You forgot to switch your phone back on after school. When the little green and black screen lights up, it bombards you with missed calls and texts. You’re shaking when you call your Dad back.

“Dad, I’m just on my way.”

“Who are you with?”

“No-one.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m heading home! I’m sorry. I was in town!”

“You’d better not be out with Leah again.”

“I’m not—”

“Get home. Right now. Or everyone’s going to start thinking you’re a fucking dyke.”

You’re swallowing hard, over and over. You don’t want me to be able to see you crying.

You don’t want me to hear, so you walk away from me. But I still hear his voice shouting down the phone. Your voice is soft, fawning.

“Sorry, Dad. I’m sorry. Okay. Sorry. Love you. I love you. See you soon.”

You hang up. You turn back to me and smile…smile, smile like you’ve gotten away with being fake – like nothing’s wrong and that we can do this again on Monday because everything is fine – and then you tell me as you always do.

“Sorry, Leah. I really do need to go now.”