breather | s.m

5

| 5 | F I V E |

Authors note - I know LITERALLY NOTHING about British soccer/football (or anything about soccer/football at all). So please forgive the many football-related mistakes I am certain I will make. I'm a total soccer noob. I don't even know what teams we have in Australia other than the Socceroos, so I'M SORRY FORGIVE ME. Xx

I'm up almost immediately, my socks on the floor. I don't want Olive to get there first. For a lot of reasons. Olive either knew this or couldn't be bothered to move, because when I round the corner she's still curled up on the couch, embedded in another world on the screen.

I stop in front of the door, taking a deep breath. And then I ask myself why I'm taking a deep breath. I'm not nervous, am I? I didn't think I was. Maybe I'm more nervous than I thought.

I swing the door open.

You're standing there, looking at the ground, hands in your pockets. And then you look up at me. It's like the first time you saw me. Almost as if you have to remind yourself to breathe every time you look up and see me there. Your eyes are a little surprised, startled, flustered. I don't quite know the right word. I think it's a mix of them all.

Hey, you say, breaking into a grin. You subtly look me up and down, and you seem nervous. You scratch the back of your neck. Wow, you even manage to make jeans and a shirt look good.

I laugh, and I think I'm a little nervous too. I tell you, Thanks. I'll just grab my coat and bag. Do you want to come in?

Yeah, alright, you say, following me in. You glance around my apartment and wait by the door. Nice place.

I scoff. Right, I tell you. No need to lie. It's pretty shit. But it's all we can afford.

We?

I nod my head over to Olive, who has apparently noticed your presence and is slowly retracting herself from the sofa. I room with my friend, Olive, I say, and she stops in front of you. She's still wrapped up in half a dozen blankets. She seems to have no qualms about being in her pyjamas with her hair in seemingly one giant knot.

Nice to meet you. I'm Simon, you say, offering her a hand. She reluctantly extends an arm from her cacoon and shakes your hand.

Olive, she says, and I swear I catch some ice in her voice. I give her a look that says play nice and she rolls her eyes at me. I'll be back in a sec, I promise, heading off to my room. I think you're trying to make conversation with her. It's hollow and indistinguishable from my room but then I come back out and I think you're talking about uni.

Olive and you both look at me as I arrive. I give you both a tight smile. I ask, ready to go?

You nod. Yeah. You turn to Olive. Nice meeting you, Olive.

You too.

And then we head off, the door shutting quietly behind us. You turn to me as we walk. Does she not like me for any particular reason?

She likes you, I lie, and I think you can tell I'm lying so I let out a small, tired exhale. Ignore her, I tell you. She's very protective. She just worries about strange men from bars picking me up.

You're not worried though, are you?

I glance up at you. You're looking me over, looking for signs of this worry. And I feel terrible. I don't want you to think that I don't trust you, or I think badly of you. Because I don't. Any mistrust is simply a product of the situation. No, not at all, I tell you, and this is mostly true. Mostly.