For Fair Love
twelve
“Do you find this ridiculous?” I ask Harry as we walk down Fleet Street. The night sparkles in my eyes. The pavement’s gritty against my heel. I stare at the lines on the road. The wind picks up and rustles a few abandoned leafs around. I straighten out my A-line skirt.
“What’s ridiculous?” he asks.
“This!” I say, looking up.
Harry makes a face and answers, “Yeah, but I don’t complain.”
He’s implying that he finds me to be a complainer. I fret.
“But you’d rather be doing this with a more interesting person,” I say.
“I rather not do this at all,” he says bluntly.
A few strange looking folks snap pictures a few feet away, not making effort to stay hidden. I sigh and stop walking.
“Can I go home then?”
Harry stops and looks back for me.
“You think you can do that?” he asks.
I fold my arms, “I don’t want to be used for your gain. It’s not my f—”
I shut up. It is my fault. If I wasn’t in Manchester that night… I cover my face with my hands and try to steady my breath. Harry comes closer.
“What’s wrong?” he sounds more aggravated than concerned.
“Nothing,” I say, through my hands.
“Then don’t look like you’re about to cry.”
“Who said I was about to cry?!” I shout, “I was trying not to kill somebody!”
I stomp the other way, fury burning me up. He grabs my arm and drags me back to the original route. I tug and pull. But, his firm hand keeps me still by his side. I give up. I clench my fists.
“Don’t make a scene.”
“Don’t order me around,” I say.
He glances at me. I give him a defiant face.
“You were a nice girl when we met at the field,” he says, starting to mock me, “Whatever happened?”
“I just,” I say my thoughts, “I don’t know. I just don’t like you men.”
“When you say ‘you men’, who are you talking about?”
I don’t answer. I need to control my lips. Harry abruptly stops and looks over to me.
“That jerk from the bar didn’t bother you again did he?”
A little surprised and confused, I stare back in Harry’s unforgiving eyes. It took me a while to figure out he’s speaking of Jack. My memory jogs back to when I last argued with Jack. I remember how awful I felt when I didn’t make the cut. All the memory I’ve been trying to push away gets me upset. I look away. But I take too long to answer Harry.
“He did, didn’t he?” Harry’s voice got louder.
“Wh-what? No,” I try to correct him, though my thoughts are eating me up.
Harry cuts me off, “What’s he done?”
“Nothing,” I say louder.
“Chas,” Harry calls me down to earth.
I shake my head and lower my voice, “It’s my fault…”
Harry puts his hands on my shoulders and faces me.
“Chas, this kind of thing is not your fault,” Harry reassures.
We’re talking about two different things.
“You misunderstood me,” I try to tell him, “Can we quit talking about it?”
“If you want to talk about it—”
I push away his arm, “We’re not even talking about the same thing, so forget about it!”
“Don’t feel like you have to defend this jerk,” Harry says.
“He’s not a jerk—You don’t know anything, okay?”
Harry stuffs his hands in his pockets.
“You shouldn’t let a guy take advantage of you, Chas.”
I turn and glare at him.
“Isn’t that what you’re doing?”
“What’s ridiculous?” he asks.
“This!” I say, looking up.
Harry makes a face and answers, “Yeah, but I don’t complain.”
He’s implying that he finds me to be a complainer. I fret.
“But you’d rather be doing this with a more interesting person,” I say.
“I rather not do this at all,” he says bluntly.
A few strange looking folks snap pictures a few feet away, not making effort to stay hidden. I sigh and stop walking.
“Can I go home then?”
Harry stops and looks back for me.
“You think you can do that?” he asks.
I fold my arms, “I don’t want to be used for your gain. It’s not my f—”
I shut up. It is my fault. If I wasn’t in Manchester that night… I cover my face with my hands and try to steady my breath. Harry comes closer.
“What’s wrong?” he sounds more aggravated than concerned.
“Nothing,” I say, through my hands.
“Then don’t look like you’re about to cry.”
“Who said I was about to cry?!” I shout, “I was trying not to kill somebody!”
I stomp the other way, fury burning me up. He grabs my arm and drags me back to the original route. I tug and pull. But, his firm hand keeps me still by his side. I give up. I clench my fists.
“Don’t make a scene.”
“Don’t order me around,” I say.
He glances at me. I give him a defiant face.
“You were a nice girl when we met at the field,” he says, starting to mock me, “Whatever happened?”
“I just,” I say my thoughts, “I don’t know. I just don’t like you men.”
“When you say ‘you men’, who are you talking about?”
I don’t answer. I need to control my lips. Harry abruptly stops and looks over to me.
“That jerk from the bar didn’t bother you again did he?”
A little surprised and confused, I stare back in Harry’s unforgiving eyes. It took me a while to figure out he’s speaking of Jack. My memory jogs back to when I last argued with Jack. I remember how awful I felt when I didn’t make the cut. All the memory I’ve been trying to push away gets me upset. I look away. But I take too long to answer Harry.
“He did, didn’t he?” Harry’s voice got louder.
“Wh-what? No,” I try to correct him, though my thoughts are eating me up.
Harry cuts me off, “What’s he done?”
“Nothing,” I say louder.
“Chas,” Harry calls me down to earth.
I shake my head and lower my voice, “It’s my fault…”
Harry puts his hands on my shoulders and faces me.
“Chas, this kind of thing is not your fault,” Harry reassures.
We’re talking about two different things.
“You misunderstood me,” I try to tell him, “Can we quit talking about it?”
“If you want to talk about it—”
I push away his arm, “We’re not even talking about the same thing, so forget about it!”
“Don’t feel like you have to defend this jerk,” Harry says.
“He’s not a jerk—You don’t know anything, okay?”
Harry stuffs his hands in his pockets.
“You shouldn’t let a guy take advantage of you, Chas.”
I turn and glare at him.
“Isn’t that what you’re doing?”