Our protagonist promises a friend he’ll go and watch his play tonight, but he can’t stop himself from looking for excuses not to.
Enjoy Billy Nomates’s Spite alongside this piece.
Wash this cake down with the coffee of the archive.
#67 Unwound Apathy
The ticket is saw-edged from where it had been cut away from a sheet of tickets, made uniquely different from the others only by the black number printed in the corner. Holding it in my hand feels strange. The weight of the weightless things - the friendship, the expectations, the disappointment - cannot be physically felt, though I know it is here. And yet I can bend it, fold it, tear it up like any other scrap in this flat.
It’s been three weeks since I promised Ben I would go to his play. He told me, in the plainest words: you have to be there. How could I not? I couldn’t have plans. I can’t think one week in advance, let alone three. Everyone else has been to see it: Sarah, Jake, Tom. Tonight is the night, and there’s no avoiding it.
‘Of course I’ll be there. I wouldn’t miss it.’
‘You would miss it. You have. You’ve never seen one of my plays.’ He smiled as he spoke, but I knew he wasn’t smiling.
I saw that disappointment in his eyes. I see it now. It’s not the first time this has happened. Sarah celebrated her birthday with dinner and drinks on the river, and I didn’t even get invited. It’s no fault of mine, it just happened that way. We don’t speak like we used to. She sees other faces, and so do I.
Bzzzzzzzzzzz.
I drop the ticket on my chest as the doorbell jolts me into the room. I sit up from my bed and put the ticket on my desk beside the ring-stained coaster and the chipped mug full of old coffee.
I open the door to an outstretched hand, covered in scars, thrusting a box at me.
‘Delivery,’ its owner announces.
‘Thank you.’
‘I came earlier, but you weren’t in.’
‘Ah, I’m sorry. I was at work.’
‘You cudda saved me the effort of coming out here if you weren’t gonna be in.’
‘Sorry? I don’t follow.’ He has a twisted mouth that gives him the appearance of scowling.
‘You get the notifications on your phone, don’t yer? They all ask: Not going to be home? Click here to let us know.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. I must have missed that.’ I check my watch: 6:23 pm. I should leave soon. I can get there early and speak to Ben. If not, I’ll find a pub nearby and wait it out.
‘Just disappointing, you know. Talk about saving the planet, but you can’t click a button here and there to stop a wasted journey. Now I’m driving ‘round at this time and I’m hungry.’
‘You could have come tomorrow.’
‘Na, tired of this. Wanted to see your face.’
‘I’m very sorry, sir. Listen, I really am. It won’t happen again. I’m very sorry, but I need to leave. I’m going to the theatre.’
‘The theatre?’ The man throws a hand in the air like that’s the last straw. ‘Whatever,’ and he turns away shaking his head.
I told myself I would leave by half past, but that’s not going to happen. I shut the door and chuck the delivery in the kitchen. I can’t even remember what’s in it. He could never have delivered it and I wouldn’t know.
I haven’t got time for a shower, so I spray some deodorant that solidifies into white clumps under my arms, throw on a new, unironed shirt, and slide some cheap wax into my hair to stop it floundering. I sigh, nearly ready to go, and yet my knees, my gut, my shoulders all tell me to go lie down, to fall asleep and wake up in a week.
In the mirror, I see a face I do not recognise. Tired, uncomfortable, clothes poorly fitted like their someone else’s. Whose finger is that twitching by their side? What is that bit of hair poking out of its own accord? My posture is not so hunched as this man’s, whose shoulders lean forward to counter their weight.
I reach for the ticket, my wallet, phone and keys and head for the door. I unzip my backpack and start putting my keys inside when, ‘Michael!’
I look up, focusing on the disturbing figure. It’s my brother. Unexpectedly.
‘George? What’s going on?’
‘Where are you going? Are we not hanging out tonight?’ He looks over at me like I owe him something.
‘I don’t know. Are we?’
‘You told me last week: come over next Thursday, we’ll cook and play games. Remember?’
‘Shit, sorry. I…’
‘You didn’t forget, did you?’
‘No, no. It’s only I have to drop something off at work.’
‘Tonight?’
‘Yeah, well…’
‘Whatever it is, it can wait till morning. They don’t pay you enough for nightwork.’ George steps past me and slaps my shoulder. I sigh and close the door.
There’s something strange that works through me in moments like these. My shoulders tighten. My lips purse, and my teeth grind with pressure. I have a feeling coursing through my body that says: even though the fixes are simple, you know you’re going to disappoint everybody, including yourself, and not do what you promised you would do. You find an excuse no one believes, you make up a task that is suddenly the most urgent task in the world, and you fold the truth into a paper aeroplane and toss it off the bridge, into a gust of wind, somewhere deep within you. I go and sit on my sofa and let the disappointment wash over me.
