breather | s.m

6

| 6 | S I X | 

Lol again I don't understand soccer/football, only ever been to an Aussie NRL match as a raffle ticket volunteer (never again). Forgive pls

Okay, you tell me, it can get a little crazy.

Yeah?

Yeah, you say, handing over our tickets. I watch my breath steam out in front of me, and I shuffle through after you. People are mad soccer fans, you explain, and you step behind me so you can guide me as we walk. Your hand is on the small of my back, and it's three layers of shirt and jumper and jacket but I can still feel it, and it still makes my spine tingle. The crowds are thick, and it's sweaty even though it's so cold. The ground is sticky. I nudge my way past clumps of slightly-drunk people, and these crowds are strange - there are families and teenage girls in boots and makeup and fur-hooded coats, and men in business suits and ties. There is every in-between you can think of. It almost feels like one massive family Christmas, only significantly less inviting.

I didn't get us great seats, you tell me, pointing down the row. It was a bit late notice.

I don't mind, I say, and I really don't. I shuffle past a group of obvious work colleagues - young men in business suits and loosened ties they don't seem to fit yet, and they still have that schoolboy thing, the wandering eyes and the crude words. I feel a lot of eyes on my rear end. But you're behind me, and the hand is still on my back, and it's almost anchoring me. Which is stupid, and very cliché. And I know this. But I can't help it. You bring out the most soppy parts of me.

We settle down in our seats and you offer to get me a drink - I smile, and I tell you I'll have whatever you have. You wrap my smile up in your own and carry it off with you. It's cold - I sit on my hands, feet tapping, knees bouncing up and down. People are talking loudly around me. I can feel the men's eyes more now you are gone - I try to ignore them. I glance around the stadium, taking in the faces, the blocks of colour. This atmosphere is intoxicating. Someone nearby yells something, followed by a round of laughter.

Hey, someone says from beside me. I turn around and it's the men - they look like meerkats, all eyes on me, sitting forwards. And I know their type. The young, power-hungry new employees fresh from university, still wrapped up in familiar boyish banter, feeling out the real world. The 'boys club'. I hate these type of people.

Can I help you? I say this and I think I sound a little icy. This was not necessarily intentional, but I tend to freeze up in moments like this.

You're absolutely gorgeous, the one beside me says, and he has this smile that makes my stomach turn. Maybe he only means well. But I don't think this because there's someone trying not to laugh a few seats from him, and the others have that look, the egging-on one boys tend to get in groups when talking to girls.

Uh, thanks, I say, and I give him a tight smile before turning around to the front. But they're persistent. The one beside me bends forward, and he's a little too close, and I can smell beer on his breath.

Not very talkative, are you, he says, and I bring my arms to my side, squeezing my hands together. I'm very stiff. I don't look at him, just stare ahead, ignoring as best that I can. C'mon, just a little chat. Why don't I grab your number?

I say nothing again. He gets annoyed now, and I've lost my appeal. Any interest fizzles out and he mutters something rude to his friend - I don't catch it, but I don't need to to understand what he is saying. I feel my cheeks burn. I'm embarrassed, and irritated.

You're back soon with the drinks, two beers in plastic cups balanced in your hands. And you're smiling at me, as soon as you see me. I try to smile back but it's a little forced.

You alright? You ask as you cross over my legs and sit down.

Yeah, I'm fine, I tell you, fixing the way my coat sits. I lower my voice and lean in a little. I don't want them to hear. I don't want anymore trouble. Just the guys beside us, I say quietly. They were just, I don't know, trying to pick me up.

You shake your head. They're just dropkicks, ignore them. I watch you from the side and I find myself strangely appreciative for your reaction - I didn't feel the possessiveness that I've felt from other boys. I was worried your inner Neanderthal would surface, as has happened in the past, which I didn't want. I'm not sure if I was expecting this reaction. It was so measured, uncaring. Like they weren't even worth your time.

Thanks, I tell you, and you smile at me with half your mouth.

Do you want to swap seats though? So you don't have to sit next to a group of assholes the entire game?

I laugh a little. Alright, I tell you, and so we rearrange so you're between me and the guy. And again, this doesn't feel possessive - it is for my benefit, not yours.

I settle into my seat, taking a sip of my beer. I like you already. And this is different. I haven't felt this comfortable around a person I've only known for about four collective hours in my entire life. You're still new to me, but at the same time I feel as if we could talk about anything and everything. I feel good about this. About us.

I have another sip of my beer.