Read by Zach Harrison
Jenny was still emoting about her poem. The poses of the others in the circle told me her poem was important, vital even. Jenny had brought up her poem when talking about how she’d recently gone off anything that tasted of oranges, because she was peeling one when she was alone in her house, and she’d a papercut she’d forgotten about on the tip of her index finger, and when she pierced through the peel into the soft squishy pulp, the sting of the juice entering her papercut reminded her of the pain she’d felt arguing with her mother. And how she wished their relationship wasn’t so dysfunctional, because she’d never have another mother-daughter relationship in this life, as she’d chosen not to have children this time around, and she started thinking about the pain of childbirth and her periods.
That’s the point I zoned out and started thinking how boring the night was, and how I probably wouldn’t keep in touch with these people after I went to university. My recounting of a funny sketch from television the night before had fallen out of my mouth like a yolkless egg.
None of this lot had seen it; they were too busy thinking about serious stuff, like Jenny’s poetry (probably). The thought of them squirreled away in their bedrooms, all unknowingly in sync, wanking to the idea of Jenny and her deep thoughts, made me laugh out loud, more a happy grunt than a proper laugh, but they'd heard it, and now they were staring at me.
Jenny started to cry. Her face seemed to ask if I thought she was fake. As much as I tried to keep my expression frozen, that’s exactly what I thought of her.
‘You bastard,’ Clinton shouted, punching me in the mouth.
In that split-second, as my head recoiled, I figured I should lay down on the ground and roll around as if it had hurt. I could easily kick the shite out of Clinton, but no one here was on my side; pretty Jenny the poet was everyone’s favourite, the glue, or some other sticky substance, that held our group together. I bit down on my lip to make sure it bled.
Much as Clinton had just exposed his love pangs for Jenny, or “my Genevieve” as he often called her, he’d also shown a violent streak, which this lot didn’t tolerate. Gavin and Eamon, seizing their chance to move up a rung on the Jenny ladder, led him into the hall to lecture him on non-violence.
I moved into the kitchen to splash my face with cold water. Handfuls of it hit my skin and fell back down over the dishes I hadn’t bothered taking out of the sink. Little diluted drops of my blood ran over the cups and saucers, most of it disappearing undetected down the plug hole. But some of it remained, also undetected. Maybe it would dry into the crockery, so that some small part of me would linger about this house, meeting the family at mealtimes, or over a cup of coffee intended as a solitary moment. Maybe I should write poetry too.
I took a minute to realise Jenny was standing behind me.
‘Sorry about that,’ I said turning to her.
‘Was it really that bad?’ she asked. She held her hand close to her face, as if she wanted to touch her mouth. I wondered if she was nervous or signalling that my lip was still bleeding.
‘No, no,’ I said hurriedly, reassuring her, ‘the opposite. I get nervous around beauty. That’s why I laughed. It just popped into my head, like “What’s the worst thing I could do right now?” You know, like when you’re in trouble at school? I’m still too immature to handle deep stuff like poetry.’ Jenny took her scarf off and wet the end of it under the tap. She wrung it out and started dabbing my lip.
‘Does it hurt?’ she asked.
‘A little, not any more really,’ I said, letting her continue.
She smiled; her expression completely changed, as if my approval had an intense power over her. Maybe she fancied me, or maybe all that make-em-self-conscious stuff from pulling websites really works. I never believed it before.
‘I’d love to read your poem,’ I said. ‘My mum is a dick, and I don’t get along with my dad. I’d fight him, but violence isn’t an answer.’ I nodded towards the hall where Clinton could be heard exclaiming that the others were being "so harsh”. Jenny nodded, almost drooling.
‘Would you mind if I put you in a poem?’ she asked.
‘Jenny, I’d be honoured,’ I said leaning in and kissing her. It was all going so well, but my nerve failed.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said pulling away.
‘Don’t be,’ she said, leaning in to kiss me.
If Jenny did write a poem about me, she never showed me it. And I never admitted her poetry was crap. We didn’t see much of the rest of the group after that night. Jenny and I spent a perfect summer together then split when we went to different universities. Tried to make it work long distance, but she cheated on me around the time I was thinking of cheating on her. So I didn’t blame her. I still acted hard done by, just to get sympathy off chicks round halls I wanted to screw.
Now, I’m older, I’ve no contact with Jenny; I haven’t even stalked her on Facebook. But I don’t regret our time together. I’ve never forgotten her.
I also didn’t forget Clinton punching me in the mouth. When I came home from university that first Christmas, I bumped into him in The Grouse. He came up half-cut and threw a matey arm round my shoulder, asking how university was working out. He didn’t mention Jenny, but I got a feeling he knew we’d broken up. A week after I split with her, Eamon emailed me, the first time since the party. He didn’t mention Jenny, but his timing was too close to be a coincidence. I bet he emailed her too, doing the “good friend” thing. Bottom feeder.
Waiting for Clinton to mention Jenny was burning a hole in my pocket, so I volunteered it. He acted surprised, but his acting wasn’t up to much. I’d never known Clinton to have a girlfriend, but if he’d been the one to break up with Jenny, his conversation would have been a hagiography of his Genevieve’s poetic soul, and the deep insights they shared exploring philosophy in late night cafes, only for them to be driven apart by the cruel side of beauty or something equally wanky to do with soulmates and the like. Whatever his imaginary Jenny would have done, the one I’d gone out with sought something different in the men she dated.
‘I don’t think we would have got together if you hadn’t punched me,’ I said.
‘Forgot I did that,’ he said. ‘Sorry, like.’
‘Not sorry enough,’ I said. That’s when I kicked the shite out of him.
(c) Gerard McKeown, 2019
Gerard McKeown's work has been featured in The Moth, 3:AM, and Litro, among others. In 2017 he was shortlisted for the Bridport Prize, and in 2018 he was longlisted for The Irish Book Awards' Short Story of the Year. More of his work can be read at www.gerardmckeown.co.uk
Zach Harrison trained at St Mary’s University and since graduating has been working on both stage and screen. Stage roles include Katurian (The Pillowman) Erpingham (The Erpingham Camp) & Demetrius (A Midsummer Night’s Dream). Film credits include Harry the Cunning Linguist in Shakespeare’s Diaries, Jack in I Kissed a Boy and Alex in Z Positive.
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