Read by Keleigh Wolf - full podcast here.
The first thing Tammy did on getting back to a guy’s flat was to check on the state of his soul.
If it was listless and lethargic, or worse; aggressive and ill-controlled, if it was poorly housed, moulting, or just plain sick, then she’d make her excuses and be out of there as fast as she could.
It would be a lot easier if men carried their souls around with them as she and her girlfriends did. The idea of going anywhere without her soul filled her with dread, a panicky feeling that soured food, wine, and conversation. Men obviously didn’t feel the same way and it was rare to catch a glimpse of their soul before they’d be trying to show you a whole lot more besides. Men even left their souls at home when they went to work, which always astonished Tammy. How could anyone go that long without their soul? How could a soul go that long without company?
“So, is it Tamsin, or Tammy?” Rupert asked, face lit up as he peered into the depths of his black enamelled SMEG fridge. He’d offered coffee, earlier, when the waiters at the nearby bistro had started putting chairs on the tables, but now he seemed to be on the search for a bottle of white wine.
Tammy – never Tamsin; not to friends or Valentine’s dates, anyway – normally drank red wine. But red – certain ones and you could never tell which until it was too late – stained her teeth and coated her tongue. Right now she would have preferred the coffee that had tempted this bold step into the unknown. Preferred, perhaps, to down that coffee while it was still scalding hot, before dashing off to catch the last tube home.
But here she was instead, looking around the spacious flat, wondering where Rupert kept his soul. Wondering how cold and crowded the night bus would be.
“Have you got a water dish?” she said, allowing the small head of her soul to nose out of her open handbag, where it snuffled and blinked.
“There’s one in the lounge.” Rupert nodded to the open doorway and the darkness beyond.
Lights flickered as she entered--motion sensitive?--and there was an unexpected purr from her soul, an eager flex of her little legs and body as she twisted, wanting to be set down. On a large, plump cushion at the foot of the sofa, an inquisitive head lifted and a fluffy tail wagged.
His was a surprisingly mature soul, fur flecked through with silver. She’d heard it said, before; people who had “old souls”. She wouldn’t have guessed Rupert was one of them. But there his soul was, calm and serene. Not giddy, or yippy, or worse; bristling at the invasion of his territory. He lay on his snug bed while Tammy’s soul sniffed closer. Then he stretched his legs, gave a little shake, and pattered off towards the balcony, Tammy’s soul in tow.
She’d never seen her behave like that. An instant attraction, a carefree assurance so unlike her usual reserved and timid self. They might as well be soul mates.
She turned to see Rupert watching, a glass of wine in each hand.
“Cute,” she said, taking the unwanted drink and eyeing Rupert in a new, rather wonderful light.
“Yes ... yes he is.” Rupert grinned, slipping an arm around her waist.
*
The sun was just rising as she crept into the kitchen, quietly opening cupboards in search of tea, or coffee. Or escape.
Things had not gone the way she’d imagined they would. Despite his relaxed soul, Rupert had been an impatient, greedy lover. And not in a good way; not in an out of control, consumed by lust way. Oh no. His every action had smacked of selfish indulgence. Of confidence in his own sexual prowess, certain that what was good for the gander, was good for the goose. But it wasn’t. Not really. Funny the tiny margins between good, and bad sex, when the actions were so similar. A slight shift in rhythm. A rushed step or two. A disregard for the response or indeed the needs of his partner. A refusal to change a game plan he’d settled on long before her. Didn’t experts say the largest sexual organ was the brain?
It hadn’t helped that Rupert had insisted on excluding their souls from the bedroom. She’d heard hers scratching at the door in the midst of what should have been her passion, and her heart had yearned to be out there with her.
Rupert hadn’t been interested in talking, after. Or holding, or spooning, or anything. She’d never spent a night in someone’s bed and felt so utterly alone.
And, when she’d emerged from the darkened bedroom, her soul had turned abruptly away and trotted off, tail held high. Tammy couldn’t really say she blamed her.
She opened yet another cupboard and got yet another miss, this one housing an older version of the expensive and overly complicated coffee machine that had pride of place on Rupert’s pristine kitchen counter.
Tammy lowered her head and sighed in frustration.
“Try third from the left.”
She nearly hit the ceiling. Turning and clutching her rumpled blouse at its gaping front she saw an elderly man sat at the table by the window, head cocked to one side, eying her with warm amusement.
“Sorry, lass. I didn’t mean to make you jump, but I wanted to make sure you knew I was here. This adorable one yours?” At his feet, Tammy’s soul wagged and eyed the old man’s lap with envy, occupied as it was by Rupert’s soul. The man’s hands scratched at the soft ears, the soul wriggling and letting out a noise of utmost contentment.
“Yes... she is. And you are?”
“Rupert’s granddad,” the old man said. “I’d get up to shake hands, but my soul’s only just got comfy.”
“Your soul?” Tammy spluttered. If she’d been able to find a cup, she’d have most likely dropped it at this point. She clocked the carpet slippers the old gent was wearing. “You live here?”
“Aye, for the moment. Back in the spare-room, or office, or man cave, or whatever Rupert calls it. ‘Fraid I had a bit of a fire at my place. It’s still being renovated.” He looked around Rupert’s shiny, expensive flat and shrugged. “Needs must.”
Tammy nodded slowly, reluctantly. “Um, so, where does Rupert keep his soul?”
“Out on the balcony, in a cage, annoying the neighbours.”
Tammy had a sick feeling in her stomach. Half dressed though she was, she wanted nothing more than to snatch up her soul and leave. She’d settle for the ground opening up and swallowing her, though how that would work on the fourth floor she wasn’t quite sure.
Somehow Rupert’s grandfather picked up on her distress. His eyes, sparkling earlier, now clouded and his brows knit above them. “You didn’t...? Before?”
Tammy couldn’t say a word, the shame overwhelming. How thin were the flat’s walls? How noisy had they been?
Not as noisy as she might have been if the sex had been any good, she thought with confused relief.
He shook his head, slow and solemn. “Ah.” He gently lowered his soul to the ground. With a myopic blink it began trying to coax Tammy’s soul out from beneath the sofa, where she skulked as Tammy’s wretchedness threatened to overwhelm her.
“Don’t fret. I’ll get yer things.” He bumbled up, wincing as he did, and shuffled over to the master bedroom. Easing the door open he disappeared inside.
Tammy felt the tears begin to flow. Stupid, stupid, stupid. She should go now, a true walk of shame, barefooted, legs exposed for all –
The granddad returned, surprisingly fast, an arm draped with her unmentionables, Tammy’s shoes and bag clutched in his free hand. He put them down on the counter, his kindly eyes on her reddened ones, stubbornly refusing to drop to what was on clear display below. “I’ll be in my room,” he softly said “You’ll be ok?”
She nodded, furiously.
*
It was only as she scurried towards the tube that she realised she hadn’t asked the old man’s name. Nor had she given him hers.
Her pace slowed. Stopped. She took a few steps, and then stopped again.
Her dejected soul peered up from the depths of her handbag with glistening eyes.
Maybe she’d been a fool. Maybe Rupert had let her be a fool. She was quite, quite certain she never wanted to see him again, the very thought was mortifying, and she suspected none of that would matter one jot to Rupert. But she couldn’t just wipe the whole, sorry encounter from her memory.
Her soul wouldn’t let her.
Sure, the old man was at least four decades outside the narrow age range she specified on her dating profile. But that was dating. That was sex.
This was ... What was this, exactly?
She traipsed back to the apartment block entrance. Slipped in as an early morning office worker exited. Retraced her steps to the fourth floor. Slid a hastily written note under the door.
She’d never known either of her grandfathers. She wondered if it was too late to adopt one. Wondered, with a brief pang of her racing heart, echoed by a stifled yip from her handbag, how she’d cope if he said no.
Tammy heard the patter of a soul’s tiny feet from the other side of the door, and knew, just knew, that the note had landed exactly where it should.
(c) Liam Hogan, 2019
This is Liam's first Liars' League story since last year's Valentines event. Each year he tries to win your heart, though he does choose a pretty strange way of doing so. You'll have to take his word for it when he tells you, as he assuredly will, that his soul is very well behaved, if a little grey behind the ears. https://happyendingnotguaranteed.blogspot.com
Keleigh Wolf is an American poet, performer, journalist & activist. She performs as Coco Millay with London Poetry Brothel & she also founded The Little Versed Poetry Collective, produces and hosts the Propaganda Poetry radio series, and is Poet in Residence at Kabaret @ Karamel where she curates monthly events.
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