Boy, Alive

Summer is coming to an end. Reasons to go out with my friends will dwindle, I can throw myself into football and school work and pretend that I'm planning for the future, making early preparations for university applications next year. Less time for parties, a chance to redeem myself for putting my parents through hell and back.

My mother cries all the time now. My drunken stupidity is always followed by the same teary conversations; my mother hunched over on the settee in the living room, her arm crossed over her chest and the hand resting on her collarbone - like she's psychically trying to hold herself together. My dad stands behind her, lurching on the outside of the whole scenario because he doesn't know where to place himself, doesn't know what to say. Unable to comfort my mother because he's not sure how he can. I sit on my own, in the armchair, my face in my hands because I still have a pounding headache and mostly so I don't have to look at them.

What can I tell them? I feel like there's something wrong in my genetic make-up, something that makes me different from my friends. I wish I was like them, that it was as simple as wanting to be something other but it's not; it grates against whatever it is that's inside of me. How can I explain it to them if I don't get it myself?

So I did what any other guy would do. I ran. Maybe I'm indulging my selfish impulses, leaving my parents when they're so anxious for me but I'm just so damn terrified of them finding out. I convince myself that it's inevitable; the longer I stay in the house, the more likely that they'll see me as I am, the more opportunities they can take to watch me and figure it out.

Which is why I'm in a music store, mindlessly flicking through albums I have no interest in. I'm only here to kill time until it's late enough that I can claim I'm tired when I finally return home.

I hear the bell of the shop door ring but I don't look up, move methodically to the next rack of CD's and start at the top. I don't even know what genre I'm browsing anymore.

"Wouldn't peg you as a country-western fan, myself."

I glance up, surprised that someone has approached me. I make note of the ridiculous, long sweeping coat, the battered boots and the tightest jeans I've ever seen another man wear. For all of this though, I almost forgive him because when I finally drag my gaze away from his attire, I stop dead. His eyes pierce into mine, playful, smirking, his mouth spread into a wide grin. There's cheekbones, dimples, extraordinarily long eyelashes for a guy. With a jolt in my stomach, I realise that he's attractive.

Immediately, I cast my eyes down to the CD's again and all of a sudden, I can't remember how to act normal. Every movement I make feels stiff and unnatural but when I speak, I'm glad to hear that I sound how I always do, if a little mocking.

"I'm amazed you'd be able to guess. You don't know me."

He doesn't even wait a heartbeat. "I know your type."

I'm stunned, and almost amused, at that. What were his presumptions based on? My appearance? There's something about him that makes me stay rooted to the spot, rather than edge away. Besides, who just walks up to a random person in a shop and questions their musical tastes?

"Really? What music do you think I'd like?"

His smile grows, taking over his face. He's pleased that I'm calling him out on it and he savours the moment, leaning around me to pluck up a CD case. He holds it in front of my face, close enough that I feel my eyes crossing, close enough to see the perfectly squared off edges of his nails.

"Now That's What I Call Music, " I read aloud, raising an eyebrow. I look at his face without thinking, catch a glimpse of blue and hurry to look away again. "Contemporary. You see me as the kind of guy who would jam out to Rihanna?"

"Well, I would." he laughs, rolling his shoulder in lazy defeat. "Alright then, what music do you like?"

"Classic stuff. You know; Springsteen, The Cure, The Smiths."

He moves nearer, we're almost shoulder to shoulder. It astounds me how easy it is to talk to him, to stand this close. The way it should be, I realise, the good mood leaking out of me. I feel guilty but he doesn't pick up on the shift in my posture, the way I've become tense in the way I hold myself.

He's so close that his elbow bumps into mine when he places the album back into its rightful place, unknowingly sending an unexpected tremor through me, then asks, "So what's your name?"

I'm unwilling to open up, bark out a brusque, "Hey, man - "

He speaks over me and rolls his eyes, like this has happened to him thousands of times. "I'm not going to stalk you. I'm just making small talk, here. Can't two guys just talk in the middle of a music shop?"

"Well, I dunno..."

"Is it the way I approached the situation? But how else do you get to know someone if you don't make the leap? In the age of technology and mobile phones, verbal communication is dead and it freaks people out. I'm not trying to be creepy or anything. Look, I'll go first - my name is Arthur." he says, addressing me with the sort of tone that would be more suited to talking to a crazed madman.

I yield quicker than I expect, warily rubbing the back of my neck. "...Matt."

"Matt, who?"

"I already told you my name!" I say indignantly, turning to face him fully since he arrived.

He's leaning against the CD stands, a hip resting against some heavy metal band's album. Arms folded, smug expression, knowing he's already won this, whatever it is. He shakes some hair from his eyes and fixes me with a toothy smile.

"I promise you'll find out my last name but you have to go first. I went first last time."

What are we, five years old? I sigh, raising my hands in a sign of surrender.

"Fine, I'm Matthew Wilkes."

"Nice to meet you, Matthew Wilkes."

I give him a terse nod and wait, the silence filled by my unaired question. I know that he can tell I'm expecting him to offer his own last name but he doesn't say anything, forcing me to ask out loud.

"So what about you?"

"What about me?" he says, his head tilting to the side, all confusion and mild curiosity. An act. I humour him.

"Your last name?"

He grins wickedly, peruses the closest rack of albums with feigned interest. He's always smiling. "Not yet."

"You're joking me, right? After you coerced me to - "

"Coerced! What a word. I didn't say I would tell you my last name straight away, did I?"

"Well, no but - "

"Exactly. It was nice meeting you, Matthew Wilkes. No doubt we'll speak again."

He salutes me before spinning on his heel, marching through the door of the shop. The bell signals his exit and I'm left gaping at his retreating figure until the last swoosh of that coat disappears behind a corner.