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He says what do you mean, I say well is it strange, do you feel different to anyone e
lse?
He says I don’t know it’s hard to say, I’ve got nothing to compare it to, I don’t know what it’s like for other people.
It’s not like people think he says, we’re not telepathic or anything like that, but we’ve always been very close, we’ve always known most stuff about each other.
Connected he says, like we’re connected.
And then he pulls a face and wipes his forehead with his hand and he says well less disconnected than other people at least.
He says it’s hot in here do you mind if I open a window.
He tries to open the window, it sticks and he has to hit the frame with the heel of his hand.
He says you know that thing with his eyes, the blinking, and I nod.
I remember when his brother talked to me that day, blinking so hard that both his cheeks lifted up as if they were trying to meet his eyebrows.
He says that used to be the only way people could tell us apart, especially when we were at school and wearing the same clothes, it was the only difference between us.
He says I used to think he did it on purpose, just to be different, you know, I asked him about it once and he got really upset, he said it showed that even I didn’t know him properly, he asked me why he would put it on when it made him look so stupid he says.
It doesn’t make him look stupid I say, just a bit shy.
He looks at me, he picks up a pen from the table, a retractable biro, he starts clicking the point in and out, clickclick clickclick.
His hand clenches around the pen suddenly, his knuckles rising hard and white from his hand, he says he is not shy, my brother is not shy, and he weights each word as though he were underlining it with the pen in his hand.
He puts the pen down, he breathes out slowly, and I say I’m sorry I didn’t mean, I just, I mean I don’t know him really I was just saying.
He says look I’m sorry I think I should go I don’t know what I’m doing here.
He stands by the door, and he can’t get out because the key’s not in the lock.
He waits, and I look at the back of his head and I want him to turn around and I want him to tell me what’s wrong.
And suddenly more than anything I don’t want him to leave.
He says have you got the key the door’s locked, and he still doesn’t turn around, he’s talking to the door and his voice sounds strange.
I say don’t go.
He says my brother isn’t shy, but people never give him the chance, people don’t make the effort to get to know him, nobody knows him really.
He says I’m not sure that I even know him, and he’s still facing the door as he says this and I’m still looking at the back of his head.
I say don’t go.
He turns around and he says I don’t want to go I don’t know where to go.
He sits down and there is a quietness between us for a long time.
He says I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude, it’s just, I feel like he needs protecting sometimes.
He says he was born a few minutes before me but I’ve always felt like his big brother I’m not really sure why.
I say you know every time you talk about him I feel worse for not knowing him properly when we lived there, I feel as though I missed out and it was sort of my fault, as though I should apologise.
