Stay With Me

We didn’t talk as we took the familiar trail to the same coffee shop we had graced with our presence the week before. It was a comfortable silence though, and surprisingly pleasant. We walked in sync with each other, our arms occasionally brushing against each other during our brisk pace to the coffee shop. Right now I really just wanted some coffee. I could feel the after-shock from the session still in my system. The way Nina could twist and turn the things I told her infuriated me, temporarily increasing my stress levels to the point where the only thing I wanted was a big cup of fucking coffee. Going home to Frank would only increase my anger and frustration if I didn’t unwind and vent. At least, that’s the excuse I was telling myself while I went on a coffee date with another man. Gerard was different though; he was kind, funny and he knew what to say to make me feel better. He wouldn’t try to force me to talk about my past; he wouldn’t get frustrated with me when I needed space. He was just there. Begging to be used in whatever way I needed to use him. Maybe it was strange way for me to think, but it was nice to not feel like the submissive one in a relationship. With everybody else I felt like I had to pander to their every whim to ensure their friendship. Being used, being submissive, it was all I knew. It was an instinctual reaction, brought on by years of forced obedience. I didn’t feel that way with Gerard. I felt like we were equals. Or, if I were being truly honest with myself, I felt as though I had the upper hand in the friendship we had formed. He came to me; he contacted me first whenever we text. The feeling was strange; I wasn’t sure how to react to it. It wasn’t in my nature to take advantage of people, to use them for my own gain. I suppose I never had any ambitions or desires that required me using somebody. Then Gerard comes along, puppy like in his attentions. He wanted attention and affection, begged to have a little bit of my time. It was an ego boost for sure, and one I wasn’t sure I was entirely comfortable with. The idea that I was in charge for once, that I had the ability and discretion to use somebody, was such an exhilarating thought, and scary in equal measure. Control and authority didn’t rest easy on my shoulders.

Ever the gentleman, he opened the door and waved me through first. The coffee shop was just as warm and welcoming as the last time I had ventured inside the small but homely shop. I saw the same two baristas were working behind the counter. Gerard was right behind me as we walked up, placing our order.

‘That’ll be six-fifty.’

I was prepared this time. I handed over ten dollars before Gerard could even blink. His face fell in surprise at first. It was quickly replaced by a slightly offended expression. He almost looked wounded, as though by paying I had emasculated him.

‘Just say thank you’ I all but snapped, unimpressed by his puppy dog eyes.

‘Thanks’ he muttered, recovering his wits and forcing a smirk on his face.

‘You’re one of those old fashioned guys, aren’t you?’

‘I wouldn’t say old fashioned’ he countered, leading the way to the small table we had inhabited before ‘I was raised with manners.’

I could have argued the point, told him that we weren’t on a date thereby voiding the need to pay. I could have told him it was outdated to be so gentlemanly to somebody he barely knew on basis of gender alone. In fact, I was tempted to argue his actions, by virtue of treating me differently because I was a woman and being offended by my paying was sexist in nature. I knew I could have gotten a rise out of him, or perhaps sparked a debate I would have argued just for the sake of it. I didn’t though. The narcissistic belief that I had the upper hand seemed to dimmer in a flash. The fear of causing an irreparable fracture in our burgeoning friendship for the sake of an argument put a stopper on the thoughts that had flooded my mind not five minutes before. I took my seat, suddenly feeling more self conscious and vulnerable than ever before. It felt like I’d been given a blow; for the first time I realised just how much fear held me back.

‘So, how have you been?’ Gerard began the conversation, completely unaware of what was going on in my mind.

‘I’ve been okay. You look like crap though.’

I was being honest. Now that I was sitting across from him at a small table I could see how pale his skin was. It was a sickly kind of pale, further emphasised by the dark bags under his eyes. They were so dark that I almost winced at the sight of it, and combined with the red tinged lower lid and slightly bloodshot eyes he made a truly awful sight in comparison to his normal appearance. His hair was always a styled mess but, now it was just an unkempt disaster.

‘Yeah, I was up all night. I have a commissioned painting that I was due to finish on Wednesday, but once I got into it I couldn’t make myself stop. I got about three hours sleep before my phone woke me up. I barely made it to my session on time, as I’m sure you saw. Thanks for the compliment by the way. Telling someone they look like shit is a great conversation starter.’

He didn’t look offended by my comment, but his chiding made me feel ashamed. I was well aware that telling someone they looked like shit was bad manners, but I would have been lying if I told him otherwise. Plus, I was curious why he was slightly worse for wear. He came across as someone who, while not vain about their appearance, made an effort to not look shabby. He wanted to give the world, and the people he met, a good first impression of who he was.

‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. What kind is painting is it?’

If I didn’t realise Gerard’s passion for art before I asked the question, I certainly knew all about it ten minutes later when he was still going on about it. I found myself drowning out his words about the nature scene he’d painted. Instead I began to take in the way he spoke. He was talking out of the side of his mouth, a smile tugging at his lips as the words flowed on and on out of mouth. His eyes seemed to shine a little brighter, glistening in the fluorescent light of the Café. His hands were gesturing widely as he spoke, with little flicks and waves as he explained the inspiration behind the project.

‘Grace?’

He spoke my name softly, but I jumped in my seat and flushed with embarrassment at being caught.

‘I’m boring you’ he stated, leaning back in his seat. He didn’t seem angry or annoyed, in fact he seemed slightly amused at my embarrassment.

‘No, not at all’

‘Yes I am, it’s okay. I get carried away sometimes. I forget that not everybody takes an interest in what I do.’

‘You’re obviously passionate about what you do.’

‘You kind of have to be if you want to make a living out of it. It’s the only thing that makes it worth it when you’re stuck in a small dingey apartment without a penny to your name. If you stick it out and make the right contacts you can start to make a bit of money, but it takes years to get to that stage. If you don’t have ‘passion’, as you out it, and determination, you’ll never make it.’

‘It sounds tough.’

‘It was at first. I was stuck working in a supermarket for a long time to make enough money to pay the bills while I tried to build up a portfolio. I manage to make a good bit of money from it on the side now, and I work for a company that’s pretty flexible with the hours I have to spend in the office so I can work from home ninety per cent of the time, which is the only reason I still have it when I was at my worst. Drawing and painting is an outlet for me in a way. It’s one of coping mechanisms I suppose.’

‘You obviously have a talent. Personally, I suck at drawing. I couldn’t draw a straight line if my life depended on it.’

‘Art is subjective. There’s no such thing as ‘good’ or ‘bad’. It’s what I love about it.’

‘No, I’m bad. I wasn’t joking when I said I couldn’t draw a straight line. I probably wouldn’t have the patience for it anyway. I mean, I look at a piece of art and I’m just amazed at how someone could invest so much of their time and energy into something people mightn’t even like.’

‘That’s one way of looking at it, but it’s not what other people think. It’s about you, and your interpretation of the world you live in, or what you’re feeling. It’s about having something to say and making a statement. Everybody needs an outlet to express that. Some people work out in the gym to physically vent their frustration, some people write to distract themselves from their reality while at the same time showing the world exactly how they feel. I draw to show people how I feel. All you have to do is find the thing that expresses who you are.’

‘How do you find it?’

The question was sincere. I agreed with what he said, everybody should have an avenue of interest that they could pour themselves into, body and soul. I wanted to find that. I needed to find it. Gerard had his art; it had helped him to pull himself out of the hole he had found himself in. If it worked for him, maybe it could work for me.

‘It’s about doing something you enjoy. Did you have any hobbies as a child?’

‘Not really. I wasn’t into extracurricular activities when I was younger.’

Gerard rolled his eyes.

‘C’mon, there must be something. Did you ever doodle, or write when you were little? No eight year old can just sit at home without finding something to do.’

‘I don’t know. I use to borrow my dad’s camera I suppose. He had a really good, expensive camera. He loved taking pictures. Most of them were just pictures of mundane day to day stuff, there was nothing really special about them but he liked capturing the moment I think. I would steal it from his office and run off with it, wasting a whole roll of film. I loved setting up scenes with my toys, or taking pictures of birds in the garden. He use to scold me over taking it but, he kept every single picture I took. He used to frame them and leave them all over the house, and I use to feel so proud that my father thought my photos were good enough to show off. ’

I felt the lump forming in my throat. The one that told me I was on the verge of tears. I hadn’t thought about my father in a long time; my mother had never let me talk about him, so I had taught myself to forget about him. Memories of him brought nothing but emotional pain and a physical ache in my chest that wouldn’t ease until I broke down and sobbed them away.

‘Why did you stop?’

Gerard’s voice was soft; he could sense the change in my demeanour but it didn’t stop him from pushing.

‘My mother threw his camera out when he died, along with the photos. She got rid of everything that reminded her of him, including his photos. Then I just stopped.’

My hands were shaking by this point in an effort to control my emotions. I was slightly angry that my father’s death was still a topic that overwhelmed me. I had never dealt with the pain of his loss; his death had been harsh but quickly overshadowed by Nick’s abuse. I had learnt to pretend that he didn’t exist, and with that I had lost a part of myself. The part that loved exploring, that enjoyed the colours of nature and making up my own imaginary world. It had all been trampled on and left to die.

‘It’s not too late to take it up again.’

I gave a non committal shrug; I had no real desire to pick up a camera, but Gerard wouldn’t take that for an answer. I just hoped he would pick up on my desire to let the subject drop. It would lead to nothing good if he pursued it under the mistaken notion it would help me to talk about it. This was something that no amount of talking would help. My issues stemmed from my uncaring mother and psychopathic step brother, and I wasn’t going to let anyone convince me otherwise.

‘Anyway, tell me more about your time in SVA.’

Gerard let out a little sigh of annoyance, but he indulged me and let his chatty side take over, successfully lifting the mood again and making me feel as ease again.

Notes

Hi everybody,

This story will start to get more interesting in the next chapter. Let me now your thoughts or if you spot any mistakes.

Lyra