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I can’t seem to wipe the grin from my face. I nearly sayYou can eat my pickles any time,but that seems too bold. I don’t want this to shift into sexual territory, because it’s so difficult to get out of it. I like this. I like having someone to talk to about the simplicities of life.
But suddenly, I don’t have any more to say on the matter of cucumber. I gnaw at my lip and take the plunge.
Me:What’s your name?
And then I immediately regret it, because he leaves me on read for half an hour. I rely so painfully on this conversation that I hold onto my phone like a lifeline, and all the while, shouts and screams erupt from downstairs. But I’m fully awake now, thanks to this stranger.
When at last my phone pings, tears well. Because I hate myself for being so weak. I hate myself for needing this person to escape my reality. The pile of unread books in the corner of my room glares at me, but I can’t bring myself to pick them up. I can only concentrate for so long before the noises from downstairs penetrate me.
Him:Tonayyyy
Me: Fuck you, Tony!!!
Him:What’s your name??
Me:Ezekiel.
Him:Fuck you rascal!!
Him:*Ezekiel
Me:So what actually is your name?
Him:Srry for late reply btw, mate whiteied, finally had a use for the cucumber?
Him:call me anything you want;)
I realise this guy is probably drunk. I’ve never smoked pot, but I’m not naïve enough that I don’t know what whiteied means.
Me:Joseph?
Him:Apart from Joseph.
So, itisa guy.
Me:Brian?
Him:Know a guy called Brian with a wog eye.
I sigh.Kai?
Him:I like. What may I call you?
I consider for a moment.Tessa.
Kai:Pretty name. But why Tessa?
Me:It’s a name from a book.
Kai:Ahh. Fair enough. Well, Tessa, I’m afraid I must bid you goodnight. Thy Brian is tired.
Me:Brian?
Kai:Autocorrect.
Kai:My mate’s just puked in my shoes, gotta go.
I place my phone on the bedside table and nestle beneath the blanket. The noises have moved upstairs now, in the bedroom adjacent to mine. Somehow, the quiet weeping of my dad is worse than the argument. I haven’t heard him cry before—usually I’m asleep by now, and whenever I clamber downstairs in the mornings, everything seems normal; my mum slaps eggs and toast onto a plate before me, but she doesn’t speak to my dad—she speaksabouthim, to me, as if he isn’t sitting across from me. Most days I pretend I’m in a rush and I take my breakfast up to my room, but it’s just because I can’t bear to see the expression on his face. He just stares at his food without truly seeing it.
