Difference of Opinion

The Red-Cheeked Gnome

Sarah, she calls me. But my name is Sara.

"Sarah honey!" she cries.

I met her at Barry's party. Barry: you know, the semi-tall, part blonde, part ginger haired senior at Cambridge. He invited me on a Friday, about 3:02 pm. I was rushing, brushing against the wall, to avoid the student traffic. Shift left, suck shoulder in, hop to the side; a klutz making up awkward moves to a perfectly coordinated dance routine. Then, a hand clings to my shoulder. Balancing me, probably. You know, when your feet curve, only slightly off its heel, then your knees bend, as they should, but then the rest of your body flings, as if it's trying to imitate your feet, though in a tight and wonky way.

"Hey Sara," he says. "Where are you going?" I don't want to turn because if I do, I'll be stuck in a mediocre, ordinary conversation. Hi. Hello. How are you. Crap actually. Oh really, I'll do nothing about it and pretend as if everything is airy-fairy and wonderfully delightful. Thank you, so very much.

"Home," I reply.

"No need to rush off so soon. I'm having a party tonight, you know."

"Right."

"It's at my place, 23 Chancery Road... it's around near that bakery that sells those amazing lemon cheesecakes... holy smoke... anyway, if you can't find it, you could always call me. You have my number, right?" He nudges his shoulder forward, his arm moving back at the same time. He's like a broken claw machine that keeps rotating, shifting its mechanical arm, even when there's nothing to snatch up.

"I have it," I insist. "From the last time you asked me."

"Oh, right," he says, his hands crawling into his jean pockets. "... so you'll be there?"

My own hands form an upside-down high-five; I feel its tight stretch. No, the muscles don't naturally line up this way. I'm forcing it into a new angle. They lightly slap the wall behind me.

My lips purse inwards. As does my short breath.

"Sara?" He urges me further into the wall's embrace.

"Alright," I say.

"You won't regret it."

"Sarah! Sarah! Sarah!" she yells out, as my feet hesitate, in and out, only just tapping the carpet. They suddenly hop forward, over the dark plank, hovering below the door. "Come over here!"

She's leaning against a doorway ahead, amid a clutter of standing bodies. Her long-sleeved mosaic shirt of blues whites and greens, shapes her small, but not slender body. She has permed curls, so short that they bob out like an afro. This girl is a mix between the eighties and the sixties; the eighties where it is acceptable to dress like a jigsaw puzzle; the sixties where a person must act completely ignorant.

My original plan was to arrive and stay for ten, maybe fifteen minutes—just enough for Barry to notice—then scurry out of there. I wanted to become part of the crowd; one of the black and white, average height figures. But now I was being pointed out! By a bright, colourful person, of all people, who loudly proclaims my name wrong.

She hurries over to me, dragging her feet. Her finger and her thumb pinch the sides of, then cling to, my wrist; her fingers become my bracelet.

"I didn't know you'd be here!" she exclaims. "What a surprise!"

"What's your name?" I ask.

"Oh, how silly of me," she says, letting go of my wrist. Her hands flutter around, the flares on her shirt flapping with them. She has this kind of presence in the room, as if she is organising, commanding bodies to shift this way, no that way. Sip this drink, no scull that one.