She was one of those girls who, despite being reasonably attractive and very likeable, would always take a back seat at parties and other social events. I’d seen her a couple of times previous to tonight but never really spoken to her, save a vague “hello”, or the cliché “how are you?” etcetera etcetera, or some mildly drunken attempt to start conversation after everyone’s inhibitions had left them. She never drank though, so even after a couple it was quite the task to find a reason for oneself to wander off to the side of the room where she sat, smiling a smile that anyone would wish was aimed at them, and break the ice.
Her golden hair was coming through at the roots the next time I saw her – at Soy’s twenty-fifth, this very night – and created a nice contrast with the dyed brown that I had grown so used to seeing. Something about her seemed different that evening. The sparkle that often lay in those azure eyes of hers appeared faded, and there was a depth behind them – of course I’m not saying there was a lack of depth in them beforehand, just that tonight it seemed more prominent – and I wondered for a while what could have taken place for her infectious smile to now be a saddened one.
But before I really had the time to put anything together Tom and Soy came over with some fresh beers and insisted I stop staring into space and come and join the others out by the pool where they had just lit the barbecue for the night’s food supply. Forcing the though of her out of my mind I made haste to the pool, I was starving.
* * *
Later, the party still going – with claims from Tom, Soy’s personal lapdog and officially appointed brown-noser, that “this was just the beginning” – I made my way back indoors and eased myself into a quietened room to relax for a bit. I’m quite the party man, but every now and then I feel a need to sit out, unwind and recharge, somewhat, for reasons that would only bore you if I told you.
The room was barely lit, and as I reclined into one of the easy chairs scattered around I noticed that the room was something of a treasury of Soy’s family. The fireplace mantle was piled with golf and pool trophies, all inscribed with ‘Geoffrey Sawyer’ – Soy’s dad – and above the mantle hung a portrait of the man himself, dressed in a black suit and tie, with a red shirt. It was hard to imagine those two being father and son. The former being a respected maverick of the golf and pool communities (he even had a pool hall and local tournament named after him) and his son being, well, just Soy. A now twenty-five year old son of a mother he doesn’t know (she passed away when he was but three years old) and a demi-God of pool and golf. A twenty-five year old whose sole aim in life, so he says, is to live free and die hard. Still, it’s not like he’s the first apple to have ever fallen pretty far from the tree…
I was snatched from my trailing thoughts as I discerned that someone was struggling with the door handle – I’d experienced this too – and as I got up to head over to the door it swung open viciously. In a slight panic I rushed to sit back down and grabbed the nearest magazine there was, to ‘read’.
“Oh, sorry, I didn’t know anyone was in here,” the intruder muttered. I looked up from the magazine – ‘Angling Today’ – and what my eyes met shook me. It was her! I’d forgotten all about her and the sad exterior. And now she looked even worse.
“I’ll go and find somewhere else to go,” she muttered, with tears trembling on her lips at the bottom of mascara streaks.
“No, no, it’s alright,” I assured her, trying hard not to sound anxious at the opportunity to talk with her and see what had troubled her. “Take a seat, you look as though you need someone to lend an ear.”
She shifted uncomfortably, unsure what to do.
“Do you want a drink?” I asked (foolishly!)
“N… no thank you”, she stammered, “but have you a cigarette?”
She spoke so eloquently! I lost myself in the thought of how softly the formed her words. Her eyes met mine after dancing around the floor and I suddenly remembered myself.
“Err, yeah, sure…” I replied, “Here.” I took a box from the back pocket of my jeans and opened it. Three left. All flattened from being sat on. “Sorry they’re a bit flat.”
She didn’t say anything, but took one, sat down opposite me and gave a faint smile in thanks. Her hands shook trying to light it. Still with an adrenaline rush from her unexpected appeared I was slow to act but eventually got up to light it for her.
“Thank you.” She whispered, “Thank you, Trace.”
“Huh, how… how do you know my name?” I asked quietly.
She smiled again, stronger this time. “I’ve seen you about. It’d seem we appear to have a lot of mutual friends,” she took a long drag on the cigarette, “though after tonight I don’t know how many of them I would still consider friends…”, she exhaled and the smoke came between us. She put a sarcastic or apathetic emphasis on the last word, which hung in the air with the smoke. My head was spinning. Concentration was merely a word now, I couldn’t execute it particularly efficiently any more; I was like the sheepish schoolboy with a crush, and the temperature in the room was soaring.
* * *
She made herself comfortable in her seat before continuing and I had time to collect my thoughts. For the first time that evening I noted what she was wearing. A light, neatly cropped black top, which revealed her shoulders (but was modest enough to leave the rest to one’s imagination); a pair of well fitted black jeans, which bought out the form of her legs perfectly, and what looked to be a pair of black Converse, though the lighting arrangements made it difficult to see properly.
I looked back up and caught her eye, which had been following mine. The temperature rose further. Her hair was tied back, save for a few strands falling about her face playfully, which she brushed aside as she spoke. “Those lot out there,” she started, nodding at the wall behind me, “how many do you call friends?”
I pondered the question. Whether it was genuine or to simply have a reason to stretch her company I don’t know, but I came to an answer: “Well, Soy, obviously, he’s a great guy”, I paused, trying to think of the others that were present tonight, “…and Rory, I suppose.”
“You suppose?!” The question seethed with interrogation.
“Well, yeah, I mean, he’s not always been around but that’s forgiveable. And when has been he’s not forgotten me, and y’know, it’s not like I’m any saint, is it?” a loose grin escaped my mouth.
She leant forward, moving a foot to support the new position (and she did have Converse on, I saw) and left the shadow that had embraced her in the chair. Her shoulders seemed radiant in the new light. The collarbones extruded slightly, making them more prominent. I’ve always found a woman’s shoulders inexplicably attractive. I don’t what it is. Perhaps…
“Trace?”, she asked, detecting my absent-mindedness. “Trace!”, came the inquiry again, harder.
“Uh, uh, yes?” I replied clumsily.
“Do you not ever feel like an outsider with these people?”
“Urm, sure, sometimes, but everyone has days…”
“I do,” she said, cutting me short and disregarding my answer, “every day. Every day I spend with these so-called ‘friends’ I am forced to the outside. To the point now where I willingly choose the outside, knowing there’s no place for me in their precious social circles.”
I protested, “Now come on, how do you know that? Surely you’re over-reacting a little here?”
“They belittle me. Try to humiliate me. They try their damnest to appear somehow above me. They are no more friends than social parasites, living off one another solely for their own personal benefit. They put the one person who will never betray them second. I’m always second best to someone else in their lives, when my loyalties lie with these people who I cannot help but put first. None of them take precedence over another,” she exclaimed, as her voice broke and more tears started, “none of them!!” she cried and screamed over again.
We sat in silence for a minute or two. The intense show of emotion sobered me up. Her honesty and openness to someone who was more or less a stranger startled me. She wasn’t even drunk. She never drank.
I built up the courage to move towards her, her head in her hands as she sobbed. I settled onto the arm of her chair and, putting my arm around her shoulders, I felt her stiffen up, but it was only for a moment. She turned abruptly and threw her arms around me, sobbing into my stomach. I damn near fell from my precarious perch from the force she projected herself with.
I took some time to contemplate, good and hard, every word she’d just said. I agreed with some parts – mostly her comments on social parasites – but I always thought I’d had friends who’d never sell me out for their personal benefit. It wasn’t until she pointed out that neither Soy or Rory had attempted to find me and see where I’d disappeared to (for what was easily an hour now) that I realised how right she was, and how her view on these people was all too true…
‘Friends?’
Indeed.
