breather | s.m

3

| 3 | T H R E E 

Olive is gripping my arm, her fingernails in the wool of my jumper, and the entire pub is mostly silent as we wait for the penalty to be taken. I want to point out to her that football meant very little to her less than an hour ago but she's gripping really hard, her eyes wide, mouth hanging open.

Come on, she mutters as the player lining the shot up takes a moment to breathe. He seems to be the only one breathing. I can imagine the entire stadium, all gripping arms and tight-chests. It's a nail-biting game, with mere minutes left on the clock, and both teams on one goal.

The entire pub holds one giant, collective breath as the player takes a kick, and we all watch as the ball sails through the air, spinning and spinning, until hitting the back of the net in the top right corner, just beyond the goalie's outstretched fingertips.

Pandemonium ensues.

Cheers erupt, a huge chorus of mostly-male voices, the clinks of beer glasses against one another's and all I can hear is total utter chaos. Some people are shaking their head, pulling at hair, and looking around this whole soccer thing seems like quite a stressful affair. I'm cheering too, though, with Olive, and I look over and you're also cheering. You clap your friend on the back, and you're grinning from ear to ear. You turn around and it's almost as if you're looking for me, although that might be my ego embellishing the story. You catch my eye and your grin widens, and you give me the thumbs-up.

I chew my lip to stop myself from smiling but I definitely still am. Olive gives one particularly loud cheer and turns to me, breathless, eyes split open wide and a grin almost tearing her face in half.

Oh my God, this is great, she says, having to half-yell to be heard over the commotion. Some people are already filing out, and a man brushes past me, pushing me out of the way for a moment. I feel his elbow in my rib and I think he tries to turn around and apologise but the crowd is too thick. It's alive , a living, breathing creature, and it's merciless. Why didn't we get into this whole soccer thing earlier?

I don't know, I tell her, and I laugh. Now we just have to pick a team to go with.

Leeds won, she said, nodding her head towards the screen. So let's go with them.

Settled, I say. I look over the tops of heads for you, hoping you are still here and you haven't been washed away in the crowd. You said you owe me a drink. I don't care about the drink that much, but I want to see you again. Olive must see me looking.

What are you looking for? She asks me, and I tell her nothing. I don't think she believes me but she shrugs. I'm going out for another smoke. You want to come?

I don't know, I don't really feel like one, I tell her, and I don't want it to sound like an excuse. Because it isn't really. I honestly don't feel like another one but she's always been funny about boys and what they seem to bring out in people, so I'm worried that she'll piece together you and me standing at the bar earlier as something more. But she just shrugs.

I'll meet you outside, if you want another drink, she says.

Just text me when you're done, I tell her, and she gives me a quick nod. A smile pushes at her cheeks and she tells me see you soon before filing out with the others leaving. A lot are still here in the bar, but it's nicer, and I feel less crammed. I follow Olive's head out, smiling fondly at her back.

Hey, you, I hear someone say from behind. I turn around and it's you, and you're already familiar. I smile.

Hey, I reply, and I'm still a little breathless from the game. I ask you, so, you'd be pretty happy with that outcome, I'm assuming?

You grin and rub your hands together for a second. Oh, totally brilliant. Couldn't be happier. You point over your shoulder at the bar. Drink?

Yeah, alright, I say, and you motion to let me through first. I slip past you, and it's a little crowded around here. I can't really see, I tell you, and I stand on my tiptoes to try and glimpse the bar over the shoulders of two particularly tall me in front of me.

You chuckle softly. Here, you tell me, and your hand is on the small of my back. You guide me forwards and I stumble a bit, blushing, mumbling a few 'excuse me's as I tug myself through the small gap between people. I find myself at the bar eventually, and you're behind me, your hand still resting lazily on my back. You drop it as we arrive, and I find myself wanting it back. You ask me what I want and I just say, whatever you're having. Your order us two beers and you pay, taking them. You nod your head over to a bench by the back which is mostly empty.

We shuffle through the crowds, you holding the beers up high as to not spill them, and eventually we settle down at the bench and there's condensation rings from old drinks, the seat warm beneath me, and I can almost hear the ghosts of conversations and big, loud laughter from moments before. I sip at my beer.

So, I know almost nothing about you, you tell me. Are you from London?

Manchester, I tell you, and you laugh slightly.

I'm surprised you didn't root for Manchester, then.

I shrug, sipping at my beer again. You were quite convincing with the whole Leeds thing, I tell you. Plus, there's not many puns you can make about Manchester. Really lowers its value.

You grin at me. I ask you where you're from, and you tell me that you spent some time in Canada when you were younger. I've never been to Canada. I tell you this and so we talk about Canada. It's nice. I like the way you talk. You do it in every part of your body - in your hands, your cheeks, your eyes, your lips. You seem to feel the words you say. I think a lot of people talk now days just talk for the sake of talking, or filling silences. But you talk to remember things, and to make new memories. And already I love that.

Enough about me, you say, settling into a small, content smile. What else about you? What's your favourite place that you've ever been?

I'm about to reply. I have the words in my mouth and my lips around the first syllable when my phone buzzes, and I look down and Olive has told me she's done. I glance back at you. You're waiting, expecting, but I know she'll be pissed if I hang around and I can't let her walk home alone.

It's my friend, I tell you, I came here with her. And I think she's ready to go.

Oh.

I'm sorry, I say. I've had a nice time, though, I tell you. I reach across and I tug your phone from your grip, and I put my phone number in under the name cigarette girl. It's probably not the most flattering name but it felt a little more intriguing than using my actual name. Perhaps I could string out this air of mystery around me for a little longer. I could be enigmatic for another night, slip out of the drum of seamless winter days.

I think I've done this quite successfully, paint myself in this strange, flattering light, because you look at me as I pass you back your phone in a way that tells me you're totally awestruck. And I love this. This feeling of being desirable. Untouchable.

Cinque Terre, I tell you, and you seem confused for a moment.

What?

My favourite place is Cinque Terre. I'll tell you about it next time we see each other.

You give my a wry smile, and you seem to want to play this game too. And what makes you think there'll be another time?

I return your smile. It's small, sideways, and a little cryptic. Like I know something you don't. And I can tell you love this.

I owe you a drink now. And who turns down free drinks? I say this to you and you're trying not to smile again.

And then I'm gone, through the straggly crowd and out into the night, where Olive is waiting for me with her hands deep in her pockets.