The Art of Loneliness

My favourite place to be is in that restaurant on the fifth floor of Waterstones.

I go up there with a book, and curl myself up in one the soft seats.

The staff are forgiving people: they know me by now.

They run through the list of drinks till I stop them with a hand gesture.

They come out with my choice of drink, the soupe de jour and a side of chips and mayonnaise. More recently, they’d brought me pepper.

It’s not that I can’t speak. I can. I know I can because I’ve tried it. Whispering a few words to myself when locked in my room: naming the objects around e quietly.

But when anyone is around I freeze up. If I try talk, my vocal cords constrict. My brain starts to push painfully at my skull, and all the while it’s cracking into a thousand sharp shards, and I panic and I can’t breathe. Even with my own mum.

So now, I just don’t try.

My mum took me to a speech therapist when it got bad. I knew this woman well, although I was young. She worked with me to get rid of my stutter, before it got bad. I remember her trying to calm my mother down, saying at least I didn’t stutter anymore.

I had thought it was funny, but my mum wasn’t amused.

The therapist said I was a selective mute. I hadn’t liked that.

I wasn’t a selective mute. I didn’t choose to be like this. I liked my space, even then, but I would also have liked to be able to ask for what I want, to tell my mum goodbye, or that I love her.

I’d like to at least hear my own voice above a whisper. To hum the songs I listened to.

I’d like at least that.

~

I’m reading Possession by A. S. Byatt, and I’m finding it the dullest book known to man. I’ve got an art book next to me, in case Byatt doesn’t get any better.

It’s a busy day. I have to wait a bit before being served. I don’t mind. I don’t do much, so I don’t need to eat as much. I’m not really hungry yet at any rate.

I turn the page. The words swim before my eyes. Critics loved it; they said I would love it’s folds and intrigues.

But all it seems to have to engulf me with is monotony. I don’t like real life.

“Are you ready to order?”

I look up. The staff all know me, and I know all the staff. But I don’t know this boy.

I guess it’s wrong for me to call him a boy. He’s probably older than I am by a good two years. But he’s still a boy to my mind.

I look at him. I had anticipated an easy day where I wouldn’t have to make any real contact with the people around me, so I didn’t bring my flip pad. Of course I have other notebooks with me, this one, but to allow someone to look in it would be just as hard as opening my mouth and speaking.

So I stare until the American lady with the bug hair and matching smile comes over and says to me:

“Sorry, hun, he’s new,” before picking up the menu and reading it off for me. All the while the boy was watching us. I didn’t really like that. I wanted him to go away so I could choose my drink and curl up with the art book I’ve chosen. That’s what I wanted.

~

He brought out my coffee for me, my soupe de jour, my chips.

He started saying something, but then snapped his mouth shut, smiled and walked away instead.

I sighed, and lost myself once again in the beauty of the colours.