‘You’re very quiet. Are you still trying to picture it?’ Andrew asked, and because he’d caught me off guard, and because my mind had gone off on another one of its tangents . . .
‘Did you know that in ancient Greece and Rome, a large penis was actually frowned upon, and a smaller one was considered to be a sign of intelligence?’ I said casually.
‘Sorry, WHAT?’
‘And further to that, an erect penis wasn’t seen as a sign of power or strength either. A small penis was considered to be the ideal male beauty standard. In fact, that’s why you’ll often see ancient Greek and Roman statues of men with very small penises.’
‘Wow, that was . . . I was . . . not expecting you to say that. At all!’
‘Well, you did tell me to picture the scene.’
‘So you pictured my penis?’ He laughed again.
‘No, I didn’t. But I did picture something that led me to ponder the representation of male genitalia in ancient Greek and Roman art. I was not picturing yours specifically.’
His laughter continued and I was worried that it was distracting him from driving.
‘You shouldn’t laugh so much while you’re driving,’ I said. But this didn’t seem to have the desired response, as his laughter just continued.
‘We’re here,’ Andrew said, pulling into a parking space that was right outside the restaurant. I loved it when I found a parking space right outside the place I was going to. I hated going to places in general, but when I knew my car was parked right outside it always made me feel safer. Something familiar was close by, keeping me company in some way. I climbed out of the car and immediately tripped.
‘Shit!’ I found myself on my hands and knees on the pavement.
‘You okay?’ Andrew ran round the car to my side.
‘Fine, fine.’ I stood up and dusted my knees off.
‘You’re bleeding,’ Andrew said, pointing at one of the big, ugly grazes.
‘It’s not that bad. I think an old scab must have come off in the fall.’
‘Old scab?’
‘I tend to fall a lot,’ I said, reaching into my handbag and pulling out my small first-aid kit. I took out two antibacterial wipes, wiped my knees clean and then dabbed them both with cream and stuck two plasters over the wounds. All the time, I could sense Andrew watching me.
‘You seem prepared for this,’ he said when I’d finished.
‘Like I said, it happens a lot.’ I pointed at the bruise on my arm. ‘Walked into my doorhandle yesterday.’ I pointed at my other arm. ‘Scratched this on a branch when I was playing with my dogs.’
‘Sorry,’ he said softly.
‘Sorry for what?’
‘Sorry that you always accidentally hurt yourself.’
I sighed. I hadn’t mean to, but suddenly I felt a little sad. ‘It’s just something that I do, I guess,’ I said. ‘Something that I do’ was an understatement though. Broken arms, sprained ankles, knocked-out teeth, broken nose. I went through life feeling that I had no control over my body at all, that I was disconnected from it. My body did what it liked in the world, and I had almost no say over it. And it was always hurting me.
‘Do you like Indian food?’ Andrew asked, changing the subject.
‘I actually hate it. Don’t like the flavor of curry.’
He laughed all over again. ‘And curry underpins literally every dish.’
‘I always order butter chicken if I’m forced to come to an Indian restaurant,’ I said. I always had a plan for restaurants. I knew exactly what kind of food I would order in certain restaurants. At a seafood restaurant, I always ordered calamari, but not the one with the heads still attached to it. Chinese, always chicken fried rice. Sushi restaurants, cucumber maki. I could not abide the idea of consuming raw fish, and avocado was too squishy in my mouth. I’d also once read an article about how a parasitic worm had made its way into a man’s brain after he’d ingested a sushi platter. I had enough going on in my head. The last thing I needed there was also a worm.
We walked into the restaurant, and the first thing to hit me were the sounds. Pots and pans, a coffee machine, chatter, rushing waiters. Sounds like these, so many different types all at once, especially when in public, often triggered my anxiety. They never just blended together into the background like they did for most people; instead my ears seemed to be tuned into each and every separate sound: the clank of knives and forks, doors opening and closing, the change in songs. I reached into my bag and wrapped my fingers around my ball of fidget toys. It was a selection of bits and bobs that I’d collected over the years and stuck onto a key ring. When I fiddled with them, they made me feel a little better.
We rounded a corner, and as we approached the table at the back two people jumped up at once. The woman, Melissa, made straight for me. And then, like a verbal avalanche, words dislodging themselves like giant chunks of snow, her mouth opened and stuff flew out. It was difficult to keep up with the words because there were just so, so, so many of them.
