The Drive Home

10: Grit

"It's cold. It's fucking cold."

"Language. But yes."

The shadows of the fire pounce around us. I pull my sleeves around my hands, draw my knees up to my chest, tuck my feet under the sand. Slithers of cold worm around my body: snaking across where my jumper rides up my back; crawling over my bare ankles, between the sand and the cuffs of my jeans; seeping in the spaces of my hood to settle like ink around my neck. 

Muphrid doesn't even know how good he's got it, with his proper-arse camping chair, and I tell him so.

He scoffs, tries to tell me how the fabric doesn't hold any of the heat, and as a statement, he stands and kicks the chair back.

"Gimme the chair, then." I challenge.

"No, no, let's just see who's more of a wimp. First to resort to the chair loses." He folds his arms over his chest, looking all smug.

"So you're admitting that it's warm?"

His mouth gobs shut. Ha, idiot.

So then we're both standing like a couple of idiots, hands shoved under our pits, so close to the fire the heat kneads the skin of my cheeks and singes my eyebrows.

And then, fuck this, I realise. I don't care if I lose. I don't have honour. That chair is sitting right fucking there and one of us may as well be sitting in it, and it's gonna be me, because this jerk has too much pride to lose over his own terms and conditions.

I make my move, spinning on my heel and twisting to the chair, but Muphrid, that sneak - he sees me out the corner of his eye. And maybe I underestimated him, thought better of him, cos he starts walking, so I start fast walking, then he's striding and I leap, goddammit, I leap across and snatch that fucking chair and nestle my cold little arse in it, and Muphrid is right next to me with this look like he knows he shoulda known better.

And then that jackass, he gets this mighty fine idea to sit down anyway, and despite my swearing and shoving he manages to coop himself right in the chair, pushes me so we've both got half a cheek hanging off the sides and we're smushed against each other and giggling like a couple of dumb kids, swatting each other's hands away and trying to shimmy our bums into the middle.

"You motherfucker," I laugh, and despite his elbow jammed in my gut, my chest is all airy and so full of light and warmth it swells within me. We giggle till we simmer down and it's just our breathing, interspersed with the odd swear and giggle, a push and shove, and I can feel his chest moving, panting against mine - that's how close we are - and he's still got those dumb earrings in and I can tell that they're chickens now. Two little silver chickens hanging from a thread of iridescent beads.

"Can I, um-" he rolls his lips between his teeth, looks away as he speaks, "What if we... kissed? Like... do you wanna?"

"What? Sure, I guess."

And then he's kissing me and I'm thinking ah fuck, I was right. This is all we are. That's all he wanted me here for, a quick little fuck on his lonely little road trip. Sneaky fucker... but I don't mind. I keep kissing him back, till he pulls away and he looks all shocked as if he wasn't the one kissing me first. Right when I was getting in the groove of things, too.

"Sorry, I-" his sentence titters off, a crumbling mudslide of syllables, and he squirms like he doesn't wanna be touching me anymore. "I shouldn't've done that. I didn't mean to."

Guess that's it, then. "Are you sure? I could go again."

He blinks, looking all goggly eyed like a stunned mullet. Were we not just making out for five minutes? What's this man got to be confused about?