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He said what so he didn’t ever tell you about me? and he seemed surprised.
I said well no I didn’t really talk to him that much, I didn’t know him that well really.
I mean he’s quite shy isn’t he I said.
He put his drink down when I said this, a little too hard and some of the beer sloshed to the top of the glass and out onto the table.
He said, well, he can be quiet, sometimes, it depends.
I wasn’t sure what he meant, I carried on talking, I said I saw him around quite a bit but it’s just he wasn’t on my course or anything.
It felt as though I was trying to justify myself and I wasn’t sure why.
> He said, well, that’s a shame, I think you would have enjoyed talking to him, he’s interesting, he would have had a lot to say.
He said, he wanted to talk to you.
And then he looked at me and said I should tell you something, can I tell you something.
He said my brother, he was in love with you.
I said, oh, really?
I said how do you know?
He said he told me, he said I knew it anyway.
He lifted his glass to his face and said and I can see why just before the beer reached his mouth.
He moved his eyes around the room, as though he was looking for someone.
He wiped the froth from his top lip with the back of his hand.
I drew circles in spilt lemonade, I looked at him.
I said but I don’t know him, I said I didn’t even know his name.
He didn’t say anything, he looked straight at me and I wasn’t sure if he’d heard me.
The pub was quite noisy by then, a jukebox and a fruit machine and a hundred people gulping down pints and raising their voices to each other.
I started to repeat myself, louder, but he shook his head and said no hold on you lived in the same street.
He said you lived a few doors away, you saw him nearly every day, you knew lots of things about him.
He said you noticed if he got his hair cut, you had opinions about his clothes, you knew he couldn’t catch a cricket ball, you knew he lived on his own, if you saw him in the street you knew him enough to say hello.
He said these things loudly, scratching the back of his hand, and they were all true, and he drank more beer and held up his hands and raised his eyebrows.
He said and you didn’t know him?
You didn’t even know his name?
He went to the toilet after that, and when he came back it was as if he hadn’t said anything, the conversation moved on and he stopped scratching the back of his hand.
We talked about work, about unfulfilling jobs and not knowing what to do about it.
We talked comfortably, way past last orders and I found myself wishing I’d tidied the flat.
