The couple sits on the stoop, sharing what smells like a spliff. It's 1:42am on a Saturday night. Sunday morning. The city is still buzzing, horns honking, sirens singing out into the cold air.
The girl, with bouncy blonde curls, is looking at the boy through rose coloured glasses.
They had met a month ago, in a bar, like every 20 something person in London does. She really likes him. They had spent two weekends together and had gone on 2 dates. This was the first time they had a real deep conversation. That was what a spliff and a late night were for.
The boy, with shaggy brown hair and a lean body, sits criss cross on the windowsill, with the girl to his right. It’s his house, he can do what he wants.
He met the girl in a bar last month. He’s thinking she might be the one.
In the short amount of time, they had spent together, he had never felt more content. They didn’t share much in common- she was an art critique for the BBC, and he worked in finance. He listened to tinny music, resembling banjos and campfires, she listened to the 1975, Kid Cudi and Beethoven, a cacophony of sounds and genres. He liked the fast paced world, she preferred the whimsical nature and trails that lead to oblivion. He wore suits, she wore skirts like that of a witch and jeans her grandfather had given her.
The bar they had met at was a mistake for him. He had showed up to the wrong address, wrong Angel street.
She had ordered a negroni in a pub, something only an asshole would do, which struck him to start a conversation.
The girl is still seated on the left of the boy, processing her thoughts, all whilst talking to the boy about his love of the Beatles and where it stemmed from. He hypothesises it’s because he grew up on Abbey Road, she jokes that he did too much acid when he was a teen. He doesn’t deny it.
When the conversation stills, the girl takes a deep breath, exhaling rapidly.
I can’t have children; she mutters into the dark expanse of the night.
The boy remains quiet, finishing his round and passing the spliff to the girl.
Can’t or don’t want to? He replies, holding his breath.
Can’t.
In the span of a minute, one word had solidified where he saw this relationship going.
The girl sits on the roof, taking deep, long pulls of the spliff, trying to remain looking uneffaced by the boy’s reaction or lack thereof, to her news.
The boy just looks at the girl. He still thinks she’s the one, but the news is not something he expected. He had wanted his own children all his life.
Okay. Want to go back inside? I am a little cold. He chooses to brush it off, pushing up from the sill and crawling back into his room in his flat. He extends his hand to the girl, who flushes red and accepts it. Little things. The littlest.
-Conversations witnessed between neighbours in the early Sunday hours. 28/1/24
By sunrise the next morning, they pour out the window, dressed in less clothing than the night before.
The boy is shirtless, barefooted, seated in the same spot as he was last night. The girl is the same, decorated in a pair of loose-fitting trousers and a t shirt.
They had slept together before, however this time it was different. The vulnerability shared the night before made it seem different. Maybe it was all in her head.
The boy doesn’t make a move to kick her out, its nearly 1pm on a Sunday.
She hasn’t been able to stop the excitement that tickles her broken bones. He didn’t seem to mind the news.
The wind picks up, carrying the smell of cigarettes up to my nose, four floors above them. Their laughs dance along my windowpane, beckoning me to look over, staring at the two of them. They don’t notice me; they’re too invested in each other. Enthralled.
The boy can’t stop playing their conversation over and over in his head. Was this a breaking point? He felt guilty over the fact, knowing by the defeat that had crossed her face when she told him last night, that he probably wouldn’t be the first guy to turn away from her. She reminded him of siren. Unintentionally luring him past a point of comfort. And he didn’t stop her.
Instead, he continued to be sucked under the waves, finishing his cigarette and making eye contact with me from below. His eyes were tired, bags under them decorated with thoughts of the future and fears of it.
He’d been teased about his want for a family growing up, and now knowing that he’d met the girl, but couldn’t have the girl in the capacity he wanted, he felt suffocated, like the only way he could go forward was through, not around like he had done time and time again in the past.
He had circled around the fact that he didn’t study finance when he went to work in Canary Wharf. He was smart enough. He had always been enough, but for the first time in his life, he felt like he wasn’t. He wouldn’t be able to give the girl what she wanted and needed. He needed more.
He still makes her breakfast and a latte as they sit in the reading nook in the kitchen in silence. Comfortable silence, something so understated he doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t want to break her heart. But he can’t curb the things he wants. He’s too young. 26 years too young.
-The morning after 12:44pm on Sunday 28/1/24
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