twitter – three good words

October 11, 2021October 11, 2021

Listen…

This space where
rather than converse
we talk write text
at each other
not to, forget with
one / another

masses of individuals
so many I-s so many Me-s
screaming soundless
endlessly into the void

hoping for a response
but all that bounces back ping-ping-ping
is the echo of our own voices ding-ding-ding
ricochets and rebounds
off of each other

over and over and over and over and over
(why am I so tired?)
and over again
until the onslaught of words
congeals;

that deafening silence.

In the distance
longed for desperately
written about once again
murmurs of actual conversation –

August 20, 2017May 15, 2020

First milk, billowing white into the deep caramel, then some sugar, a bit more than she wanted to admit actually, a short taste… yep, just right. Leaning back against the dark-chocolate leather, Sam warmed her hands on the cotton-white porcelain of her cup, sipping her hot beverage carefully. Hot beverage. It sounded so much fancier than ‘cuppa tea’. The door opened right then and another set of undergrads piled in. The velvet curtain, suspended high and wide to keep out the draughts, fell sumptuously back into place in thick Cabernet folds, that deep dark wine they once had with that perfect steak, where was that, ah, yes, that time… A week only, ok, ten days. Hot late-summer days, swimming, laughing, teasing, kissing, kissing, kissing, oh those lips… and warm nights that glowed way past midnight, wide awake, city lights all over, the shadows slashing black against faded street-light-tangerine… That had been a really nice bed actually, her body still remembered its comfort, luxurious.

Sam roused herself and drank another sip. That was then. Now, the three girls next to her who looked like versions of the Courtneys, Britneys, and Lindseys Sam had met so far, all three were talking in the familiar dialect of ‘like’ and ‘awesome’ and ‘ohmagawd’ with the over-enthusiasm of transatlantic twenty-somethings. Their blonde and brunette heads bobbed, their manicured hands rose and fell like their high-pitched voices, their white smiles showing their parents must have had excellant dental coverage. Then there was the man across of her, typing gravely, ashblack Bose sealing off his ears to the world, his fruit-stamped screen sleekly silver, ultrathin. Late twenties, neatly unkempt, maybe a graduate writing another CV – no, another fellow blogger, typing up the latest draft to his novel. He had that look on him, the one Sam recognised, that look that said a lot of thinking was going on, serious thinking, because the words had to be right, perfect, exceptional, breathtaking, the words had to be ‘ohmagawd’, the good kind, because all those other authors and interviews, all those great and terrible reviews, loomed large, like an icy sword of Damocles, ready to trike down and annihilate those delicate dreams of – what? A good book? No, a great book. The kind that generated tweet-threads and hashtags and followers. Of the right kind of course.

Sam wondered if this man, with his half-eaten muffin and tall extra blend, Beanie’s only used those cups for extra blend, Sam wondered if he worried about that kind of stuff, or if he actively chose not to care, like switching off a flat-screen, turning down a radio, or rather, x-ing an app, all apps, actually shutting down the whole thing? And suddenly Sam wanted to speak to him, this man who typed so seriously and looked like he could be someone interesting. She wanted to ask him what he was working on, talk about these things that were her things too, things that she wanted to share and not share at the same time. She wondered what playlist he was listening to, she was 99% certain it was Spotify, probably even Premium, he looked the type. Unless it was all iTunes.

Sam took another sip of her tea. If his smile was good he would be handsome. His eyes were dark from where she sat, as dark as his hair, his face cold-weather pale underneath the neatly trimmed beard because these days every single man below forty had a beard, it was frustrating. To Sam, beards were the hairy equivalent to push up bras, they just hid what was really there. His was short and neat and didn’t look itchy, though, which was a plus. Right then, Sam realised what she was doing, ‘tindering’ as Sonia called it, mental swipes, left, right, IRL. For that second, the casual cruelty of it was clear – she knew absolutely nothing about him, save what she could see – and Sam looked away, mildly embarrassed, hoping she hadn’t been staring.

Outside, beyond the panorama panes, strangers rushed past in their coats and scarves, hiding from the weather. No one talked out there, everyone passed each other in silence, sunk deep in their clothes, fighting the wind. They look lonely. It was in their eyes, their faces, that were somehow more absent than absent-minded, earbuds stark white in their ears. Sam took up her pen and wrote:

Bodies moving, hurrying from A to B, wishing they were in C.

She looked at the words. She added:

And even in C we wish for D or E, F or some mystical G, that perfect spot everyone’s so desperate to find.

But even G’s never enough. There’s always H and I and J and the rest of it.
Does anyone ever reach Z?

Or does Z just mean you start at A again?
Does it really matter?

Even in A it’s you in A — and if you’re lucky someone else will be there to share it with you.

Colin is there to share it with Greg.

Though even in that sharing there was that space, wasn’t there?

That space (in) between

that nothing could cross and left everyone with these three words:

lonesome
lonely
alone

Sam wanted to add free, but decided against it. She looked across the table. The Writer, as she called him now, was still typing earnestly, frowning gently, fingers hitting black keys precisely. Really, if his smile was good he would be handsome. She should stop this.

Woman stares at a man: a history.

Her phone was still screaming blue murder: CHECK ME CHECK ME CHECK ME. Oh all right. Sam woke up her phone, typed in the code, and checked. RTs from all kinds of people and a DM from Mac.

MacMillan
@thejoycehater
Mind if I join you?
Just for 5, not much
Srsly need some downtime b4
heading home
Sam?
6:31 pm

Sam typed quickly

Omg sorry Mac!
Just checked my phone
Sure come over
Greg’s terrifying Darren again
[3 x cryinglaughing]
7:12 pm
√

Hi
Ok
be there in 5 x
7:13 pm

[thumbsup] x
7:13 pm
√

Sam looked at the words she typed and the words she wrote down. She kept herself from looking at The Writer. Courtney, Britney, and Lindsey next to her were very animated about some party they went to last week, apparently a whole rom-com happened there. Sam closed her notes. For a split second, she was back in that hot summer night, at the beach, kissing, kissing, just kissing, snogging for days and centuries, like she hadn’t since her teens. Those lips. She would not find them again, she knew it. This was disappointment. Not heartache. Disappointment. She had her one taste, and that was it. Sam looked a her notebook, a smooth red Moleskine, lined. She had at least ten of them already, filled to the brim with thoughts and memories, questions, good brainstorms and silly ideas. They were her life, like grapes turned into wine, really it was that red, a deep, dark, thick red that had become the taste of summer to Sam. Just then, the door opened, and Mac fell in, looking rushed, hot, and harried. Clearly this Wednesday was way worse than expected.

August 18, 2017May 15, 2020

beanie’s beanery, II

Not PG rated

Sam was on page 52 when Greg turned up with the tea. ‘Don’t you look gorgeous today,’ he faux-gasped, a be-ringed hand on his chest, the other splayed neatly against his hip. Tall, model-slim Greg with the bright blue sleeves flashing underneath the cuffs of his black-striped shirt, Greg who looked far too cute in everything he wore.

‘Greg, you know I look awful right now,’ Sam rolled her eyes.
‘Awful shmawful, you know you’re always lovely, darling. Fab earrings you got there. They new?’
‘Yeah, got them last week,’ Sam smiled, somehow proud of having über-fashionista Greg acknowledge them at all.
‘Look at you, treatin’ yourself like a grown up,’ Greg smiled, and he meant that smile. ‘By the way, El Gringo thinks my pantaloons are too cute.’
‘Really?’ Sam asked, eyeing the super-tight purple fake leather Greg was sporting.
‘Nearly shit himself, the sod,’ Greg grinned nastily. ‘Probably thought I was about to infect him with some sex-lurgy. Next time I’ll throw some glitter on him just to see what happens.’

Sam couldn’t help laugh, shaking her head, ‘Greg, you’re too much.’

‘What? That phobic phobe of the phobes deserves everything he gets,’ Greg sniffed, looking like the poshboy he really was. ‘Anyway, just wanted to warn you if something epic happens.
‘You think it might?’
‘My goal is to make the boy cry,’ Greg sighed dreamily, before whispering, ‘Sob, mothafucka, sob.’

Greg flashed a devious grin, twirled a perfect 90° that showed just how professional his dancing once had been, and catwalked back to the counter like a prima donna, making those new to Beanie’s stare and the old crowd smile into their drinks.

Sam shook her head, smiling, Greg really was one of a kind, Greg who was actually Agregán, ‘cos mother was shagging some post-cubist madman or something. Nah, don’t ask me, Mater and Pater’re just mental,’ Greg who’s Dad was some double-named City banker, his Mum a minor ’80s socialite, and Greg their ‘super-duper-gay’ third son who co-owned Beanie’s. Only Sam knew about that, though, because Greg told her once when they were fabulously drunk at his brother’s birthday bash somewhere ridiculously expensive in Mayfair. Sam had been Greg’s date since ‘the family’ didn’t like witnessing Greg’s ‘habits and ways’, so he needed ‘a legit woman who looks good in a sparkly dress.’ So Sam it was, though Sam knew Sonia would have loved to come.

It was in that niche with the comfy cushions, sipping genuine champagne from the Champagne while Dr Dre’s samples thumped through the walls, it was there that Greg gave her the 411: he’d given Marion the money. He didn’t want it back, at all, ‘I wasn’t joking. Look, I have way too much of it already, so, y’know, if it helped sweet Mareyon, pourquois pas?’ So Marion got the money she needed to start her dream, all Greg wanted was for her to get Beanie’s up and running, but Marion refused to take it without giving something back, so Greg got some shares. ‘Thirty percent, that’s what. Marion said I can’t be trusted with more, and she’s right. Imagine me as a bossman.’ Greg burst out laughing before squishing a kiss against Sam’s cheek and sighing, ‘I love you, Sam-I-am, I love you so much,’ with tears in his eyes.

That was during the god-awful Weston time. Everyone in Beanie’s hated Weston, from the staff to the regulars to Aboyemi who brought the blends from St John Roast once a week. Weston was evil, Weston was wrong, Weston broke Greg’s heart really bad and it took way too long until Greg got away from him. Thank God Marion threw Weston out that time he attacked Greg in the middle of Beanie’s, punching Greg because Greg refused to give him more money, Greg who looked terrified and unable to flee, beautiful, salty Greg who suddenly looked so helpless. Marion raced around the counter, yelling, looking like a mother bear who just saw her cub get mauled, Marion who hit Weston over and over, shoving him across Beanie’s, yelling, ‘Get out! Get out! Get out!‘ Weston who didn’t know what hit him, he looked just as shocked as everyone else.

It happened so fast, suddenly Weston was just gone, Marion yelling down the street, ‘I’ll fuckin’ kill you, you piece o’ shit! Mothafucka! Yeah, run, before I cut your fuckin’ balls off! Run, mothafucka, run!’ When she came back into Beanie’s, she looked furious, embarrassed, and defiant, gave their shocked faces one look and said, ‘What? Greg’s my baby, you know that.’ And that somehow broke the spell. They all smiled with relief, the emergency was over and Weston, who scared everybody, was finally gone.

It was Marion who threatened Weston with the police when he tried to come back a week later, because everyone knew Weston always had some coke on him. It was Marion who basically locked Greg into her flat down near Shepherd’s Bush to save him from himself, because Greg had started saying things like, ‘He didn’t really mean it that way, he was just upset’, Marion who finally talked some sense into Greg after they all had an intervention with muffins, coffee, and very many hugs, and about three weeks later the mess was finally over: Marion had called the police on Weston who somehow knew exactly where his stash was and that was the end of the evil bastard.

It still took about a year until Greg was back on track again, a year until Greg really started laughing again, a year until Greg stopped with the lines and started getting healthy again, though the vegan-thing only lasted six weeks, probably because Marion’s pancakes and waffles were to die for. Now he was smiling again, Greg who loved bamboozling Darren, Greg who flirted shamelessly with women, Greg who was currently seeing a Colin, fresh out of Oxbridge and working for some Attaché or something, and so part of Greg’s posh crowd, except that Colin was surprisingly the sweetest, shyest, and prettiest sweetheart Sam had ever seen. Everyone liked Colin. Everyone told Greg this was the best one yet, everyone agreed with Marion who spelled it out, ‘He’s cute. Don’t fuck it up. Y’know, just enjoy it for once.’ And by the look of it Greg was really trying to do just that.

August 17, 2017May 15, 2020

beanie’s beanery, I

The wind sliced around the corner, youch.

Sam huddled into herself, deep into her shawl, hat, and jacket, hurrying towards her favourite place, Beanie’s Beanery.

Inside Beanie’s, there was one table left, right across the panorama windows, snug between the bamboo shelf and the gum-tree, a perfect hotspot, yes. Sam hurried over, and sat down, relief sighing out of her, finally. Just then a couple walked in, all stamping feet, red faces, and rubbing hands. They scanned the full room once, twice, then decide to just stand near the tall slab of slate with Only Good Vibes swung in chalk on it. Beanie’s lovely old-wood counter-top often functioned as an impromptu bar for those who really just wanted some great coffee.

After de-onioning herself and watching with satisfaction as her phone picked up a full cone of WiFi, Sam answered a WhatsApp from Tony – Haha yeah, ttlly – liked two memes and three Insta posts, one of them that new one from RyoRyo that was really sweet:

174
almost black, broiling
skimming-skating
racing across an endless sky

RyoRyo was this guy in Tokyo who liked to write in English. They DM’d sometimes, Sam had gotten curious and one evening just sent That was beautiful. How do you do it? And RyoRyo answered. Ever since they DM’d every now and then, mostly emojis and memes, but it as nice. The last one RyoRyo sent was a cat someone soaked in the kitchen sink, the poor thing looked positively murderous and Sam laughed for five minutes, genuine laughter that broke through the dreary day she was having.

Sam ordered tea, English Breakfast, when Sonia walked over with an easy ‘Hey, Sam!’ Sonia with the thigh gap and the really pretty eyes, Sonia with the hazelnut curls she loved and hated, Sonia who got a B.A. in Business because it was sensible, Sonia who found out she was one of millions who were that kind of sensible, Sonia who once said, ‘It’s like we’re all Made in China. Cheap and disposable.’ Sonia who was always sending out CVs and rewriting Cover Letters, Sonia who was trying to escape her gulag of a temp-job, Sonia who helped out in Beanie’s on Wednesdays and Saturdays so she could afford Bobbie Brown and vacations, Sonia who had that boyfriend, The Jerk, Sonia who sometimes crashed at Sam’s because of The Jerk, Sonia who was actually a great friend.

‘Big, small, drowning?’
‘Drowning,’ Sam smiled. ‘And hot, please, really hot, like, boiling.’
‘How boiling?’
‘Law-suit boiling.’
‘You sure?’
‘Girl, I need to warm up. Just – make sure Darren doesn’t ruin it. And add a TSG to that.’

A TSG was Beanie’s famed ‘Tomato Soup with Grilled Cheese’, an enormous bowl of thick, fire-engine red, tasty tomato soup and a virtual slab of a grilled cheese sandwich made with whatever cheese Cook Masood felt like melting that day. A TSG was a full meal for less than a tenner, and everyone loved it, students, graduates, and The Working Dead as Sonia called everyone who could no longer hide out in dorm-rooms.

Sam small-talked with Sonia for a bit, the usual, The Jerk, gulag, The Jerk, yoga, The Jerk, how awful the weather was, The Jerk, and some Staff Room gossip about Greg and Darren. Greg was House & Country and very gay, Darren was very straight-from-Texas American and forever baffled by Greg. Just watching them was entertainment, but Sonia couldn’t stay long, people were looking over, trying to catch her eye.

Once alone again, Sam took her book out and started reading, scribbling notes in the margins. She slowly sank back into herself, wrapped herself up in the busy quiet of Beanie’s, and disappeared into a different world with words like

I
Visitation
1529

They are taking apart the cardinal’s house. Room by room, the king’s men are stripping York Place of its owner. They are bundling up parchments and scrolls, missals and memoranda and the volumes of his personal accounts; they are taking even the ink and the quills. They are prising from the walls the boards on which the cardinal’s coat of arms is painted.*

only breaking her reading due to the relentless blue-dot flashes beaming from her phone – oh, another tweet from @thejoycehater who was her colleague and friend Kingsley ‘Mac’ Macmillan (yes, his parents were that pretentious) :

MacMillan @thejoycehater
@tullytullytoo @whohoomans
@padmesam @wathefek @jujuice79
@decomfekin @madmommy77
@dropitnow91
Fuuuuuuuuuck people
it’s only Wednesday.
#humpday #ugh #shittyweek #ineeddrinks

JuiceJune @jujuice79
Replying to @thejoycehater
I CAN’T EVEN.
LIT-ER-A-LLY.
#wtf #humpdayblues

another WhatsApp

Julianna: OH MY GOD I HATE THIS PLACE!!!!

and a couple more Insta-likes of her last skyline snapshot, ah, Jason and Lou-Anne, nice. Sam dutifully answered all,

Samiam @padmesam
Replying to @thejoycehater
I hear ya boo. That’s why
I ran off to the B
TSG 4 life ♥
#humpdayblues

Sweetie, I know
But it’s only 2more weeks
Remember Lisbon
Make it your mantra:
#sing I love Lisbon in the Spring
√√

By the time she had finished answering Julianna, Sam’s notification bar was full of mentions, like @jujuice79’s RT PREACH! [handsintheair] quickly followed by

Omigod TSG would be fucking
HEAVEN now ♥♥♥
#foodheaven #hangry

from @tullytullytoo and

TSG!!! YAS!!! Goddammit Sam,
why do you torture me so? [sob]
#ineedfood #hangry #crying

from @whatthefek who was in San Francisco for a month due to work, which was why @dropitnow91 replied

wtf you have fab sushi & dim sum
just down the block. Get. Out.
#seriously #nah

which was immediately liked by @madmommy77 @jujuice79 and 12 others, but the count was still running. Her count was currently at 15 likes, no 16 likes, nice, 11 of them actual friends and 5 of them people she probably met at some party once. And again Sam felt that warm glow of satisfaction: she had read the mood right, everyone just wanted some TSG and a time-out. The shitty week and the weather had dragged everyone down, no wonder Mac tweeted that, his count was at 35 at the moment, and it was probably still rolling.

In moments like these Sam felt they really were all connected, all at the same place at one with each other, all their minds synced to one. No wonder Dunya called them The Hive, Dunya who’d been part of more than one mad night full of cocktails in The Shak back in the day, Dunya who hooked up with richboy Sergio nobody ever took seriously he was such an insufferable twat, Dunya who got pregnant with Angelo and cried all night, Dunya who accepted Sergio’s pretty sweet proposal, somehow he’d managed to grow up when no one was looking, Dunya who became Mrs DeLuca three years after graduation, Dunya who became a full-time Mom. Dunya who did her best to get a babysitter in time, Dunya who really did call herself Mad Mommy, Dunya who never exempted herself from The Hive.

Anyway. Sam put away her phone, ignored the blue blinking dot yelling a silent CHECK ME off the screen, and continued reading, refusing to look at her phone until she got her tea. Sam sank back into Renaissance England and tried to remember which Thomas was who, finally took out her notepad from her olive-green Snipes with the tan tags – the one Sonia bought the day after she saw Sam come in with it – and jotted down words, thoughts, questions, and memories of lectures past, she’d had more than one Shakespeare course in her uni life.

Sam watched the ink seep sweetly into the smooth paper, swoops and swirls, simple curlicues that were just so satisfying to see. These were her words, this was her writing. This was her notebook, full of brainstorms for the next review she would post on that place that was all hers, her blog: The Orsay at padmeorsay.com. None of her friends knew it existed, no one in her life was to know. The Orsay was hers and hers alone, which was part of why she liked writing her posts out first. It added to the privacy, almost as if she was really writing a journal of her life. There was something about seeing her own words in ink on paper that made it more real. So Sam wrote down: Imagine you’re in 15-Whatever and get robbed of your ink and quills. No chill.

*Hilary Mantel. Wolf Hall. 4th Estate, 2010, p. 47.