I can hear what mum will hear when she plays this message, voice all muffled under the blankets and barely audible, “Hey ma! I know you must be busy with the party. I just wanted to say that I’m going to sleep, so don’t please call at midnight. Fever’s still there so I’ll just take the meds and try to get some sleep. We’ll talk in the morning, yeah? Alright, Happy New Year then.” I push the blanket off my face feeling the cold air hitting me with a rather refreshing tone.
I’m not sick, I just didn’t want to go home for a party. I’m still traumatised by last year. Mum came to my apartment to invite me. “I’m not going.” I shrugged, “I can’t bear the music so loud.” Also the smell of sweat merging together into a humid, heavy cloud but I can’t say that to her for Dorothy always hosts the best new year’s parties with the best... everything, even ventilation.
“Try getting out of this apartment! Everyone asks me where my daughter is and I never have an answer!” She broke eye contact and sighed; my ears rang from her sudden roar. She continued seemingly calmed down mustering up all the motherly authority, “You are coming with me. Get dressed.” I moved towards my bedroom, defeated, “Wear something revealing, I’ve set up a date for you, maybe that way he won’t have time to ask about your salary.”
Pete was a piece of work, I can’t really blame him, that was a revealing dress. I don’t think I need more of a justification as to why I lied to my mother. She really can be cruel sometimes. I struggle out of bed, making a noise as if I really am sick and walk to the balcony. I take my phone and cigarettes. Smile by Nat King Cole comes as waves from my speaker. I watch the stars and the constant interruption of the clouds, the soundless movement eases something in me, washing away the remain of the parties. I light my cigarette, watching nothing when I notice a guy standing below my window gazing up, his gaze lands on me. I know him but just can’t place him.
“You’re playing that?” He shouts as I barely hear him.
“Yeah!” I suck in another puff, “Why?”
“Can you play My Funny Valentine?” I pause the music. Where have I seen him? “Cliché.” I whisper as I search for the song. “What?” He shouts in the same volume, realising he is too loud now that the music is off and I shoot him a look. “What were you saying?” He’s persistent, either he knows what I said or is just irritatingly curious. “I said, cliché.” He raises an eyebrow and whispers something but I don’t fall into the trap. “I said, judgemental.” He says.
“I didn’t ask.” I play the song and his smile widens.
Where do I know him from? He is no longer looking up. He takes a few steps away from the building absently. I watch his sleek stature; his coat really does a lot for him. His hair fall… He turns in a rapid motion, “Your looks are laughable, unphotographable, yet you’re my favourite work of art.” I laugh with the cigarette barely holding on to my lip, “Is your mouth a little weak?” He continues and I lower down the volume so I could really hear him. The song ends and we are just staring at each other, “Don’t you have somewhere to be? It’s New Year’s Eve.”
"No." He shrugs, a smile elegantly resting on his lips, “Don’t you?"
“What do you think?” I scoff.
“Have we met before?” He asks. Yes, we have met before.
“Do I have a forgettable face?” He moves closer to the building, I feel bad for his neck, “I hope not but I can’t really see you.”
“Let me give you a hint, July’s irony.” He opens his mouth, then closes it and then shouts my name, he laughs in, what I think, is disbelief.
We met at my high school foe’s wedding, he was a friend of the groom, ‘How self-involved do you have to be to advertise your November wedding as a June wedding when your name is June?’ That was how he started a conversation with me during the reception. I noticed him during the ceremony and made it obvious that I did. He was pretty drunk and sweaty after dancing when he finally came up to me. I replied, ‘I feel bad for the poor guy. He’ll always be July in her life.’ He looks at me curiously, ‘You know, because he’ll always come after her and her name is June... so he’ll be...’
‘July.’ We say in unison. We stare at the couple.
‘Ah! Don’t get me sad, I’m drunk already.’ He extended a hand and introduced himself. We made fun of people and out of the blue, he said, ‘Your top is a little transparent, do you know? And that in no way affects my admiration for it, only eggs it on.’ I laugh fixing my top, ‘Oh boy, I really hope you remember this conversation tomorrow.’ Without even blinking he said with the most frat-boy look, ‘Me too.’ We had a good time at the rest of the wedding. I sent him off in a cab because all his friends were equally drunk, if not more so and we never saw each other or talked again.
“We had a blast at that wedding! To be honest, I don’t remember much just that it was a good time.” He smiled from ear to ear.
“Really? I really wish you did!”
With a softer, a little less confident face, he said, “Me too.” And I laughed a bit too loud. His phone rang and I could feel the pain in his neck easing as he looked down, “Give me a minute.” He turns away from me and answers the call. I get my stuff and leave my house. I open the door to my building and he is not there. I look from side to side finally spotting him still on his phone. I stand there waiting for him. All the butterflies settle down and the cold finally hits me. I slide my hand into my coat pocket and thank god a
cigarette pack! But no lighter. Shoot. He approaches me, “Hey, sorry, I have to be somewhere. I’ll see you later, yeah?” And he leaves. It happened so quickly that I didn’t quite understand it. With the unlit cigarette resting on my lips, I watch his back as he runs away from me. What if I went to mum’s new year’s party? What if I fell asleep? What if I didn’t play that song?
What if I never see him again? I call out his name, he turns around. I take the cigarette from my lips, it sticks, “Give me your number.” Everything slows down, my blood seems to flow at a calmer pace. He smiles and starts walking towards me, panting from his run in the opposite direction now headed towards me.
This story is written by Ashi Dahiya, Publishing & Editorial Lead, Burrow
shared with love on Burrow — a space for slow stories & safe conversations.
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