Read by Lois Tucker - Full podcast here
Lockdoon turbo relationships. That’s whit they call it. Ye finally cross pass wi somewan guid, and then boom - Big Boris tells ye tae stay at hame.
“Fancy gettin a hotel?” ah text the fella ah’ve ainlie met twice. Boozers shut at ten, and a few hoors o chat wisnae gonnae be enough fur us. The prices o rooms are oan their arse because o lockdoon two.
“Aye,” he replies, no hinkin twice aboot it.
“Smashin. Meet ye by the station in an hoor?”
“Aye. Cannae wait! x”
Ah’ve gat Mark Zuckerberg tae thank fur this wan. This fella gied me a compliment oan the auld Facebook, and ah replied tellin him that he made a hot wumman. It wis true. That body swap filter is sommat else.
We couldnae muster up the courage fur a peck oan oor second date, let alone dae the deed in the hotel. It’s simply oor bar fur the nicht.
“Who needs the geegees when auld Trump’s gat a Twitter?” ah joke at check-in.
Wan glass leads tae another, and before we know whit’s happenin, the election’s ower, and it’s time tae heid hame as bubble buddies. There’s nae harm in huvin wan last day inside together efter spendin the nicht in the hotel, we hink.
Ah dread tae hink whit a could o done while we wur both asleep, but the hotel would huv hud hunners o cameras. Ah’m too hungower tae gie ma OCD a second thocht. It wis jist ma luck tae get the worryin disease. First it wis a fear o gettin sick as a wean, and now it’s causin every type o harm imaginable.
*
Hangowers are a bastart at the best o times, never mind when ye huv tae wear a facemask. Ah open the taxi windae and take a deep breath. In and oot. In and oot.
“Dae we need tae stoap?” Billy asks.
Ah shake ma heid. Ah can jist aboot manage.
“President Trump has tweeted to say that he has won the US election, but ballots are still being counted,” a voice says ower the radio.
Ah projectile vomit intae ma mask, almaist blowin it clean aff ma face.
The Uber driver screams, quickly pullin ower.
“The postal ballots counted so far suggest that there could be a huge swing in the Democrats’ favour,” the man oan the radio continues.
The ainlie person huvin a worse day than me is the tangerine walloper in the White Hoose.
“Face masks work!” Billy jokes.
Ah jump oot the Uber and spew ma guts up oantae the side o the road. Ah can taste the gin ah’d guzzled as each wee American state turnt reid insteid o blue. But at least hings are lookin up fur auld Joe, ah hink, retchin up the last o ma stomach.
Ah step back intae the Uber, mortified. The chunder queen o the pandemic.
“Thanks fur being guid humoured aboot it,” Billy says tae the driver, who hauns me a new mask and baby wipes.
*
Ma toap-flair room’s like an oven, even though wur well intae the winter o Corona discontent.
We slump intae ma bed. Anywan else would o run a mile the moment ma eyes are shut, but no Billy. He puts his arm roond me. And we’re oot like a licht.
*
By the time ah’m feelin less like the Donald’s shrivelled bawsack, it’s dark oot. Ah offer tae cook Billy dinner. It’s the least ah can dae. An OCD thocht pops up as we walk through the aisles o the big Sainsbury’s. Whit if ye woke up and callt yer auld manager a prick oan LinkedIn last nicht? Ah push it oot ma heid.
“Cannae eat gluten wioot chunderin masel,” he jokes.
Ah’m glad tae see there’s no been a repeat o the toilet paper apocalypse.
“Nae bother,” ah say, directin him tae the auld Free-From section.
“Y’know,” he says, “yer tickin boxes ah didnae know ah hud.”
“Whit d’ya mean?”
“Ah’m an awkward eater.”
“Ye’re coeliac. Ah’m hardly gonnae let ye shite yersel efter …”
Ah pick up some gluten-free wraps and biscuits. He doesnae bring up the chunder again. The last time ah whiteyed in front o ma pals wis three years ago, and they’ve never let me hear the end o it. They’ll huv a field day when they get wind o this wan.
That’s no tae mention when ah whiteyed oan ma poor wee hamster efter owerestimatin ma stomach efter the Rona. The filthy wee bugger started eatin it. It took a week’s worth o baths before he looked like a normal rodent again.
Billy taps his caird at the till, even though ah owe him wan.
“Thanks,” ah say. “Ye didnae huv tae dae that.”
Ah dae ma best Gordon Ramsay in the kitchen and insist that ah dinnae need a haun.
*
Twenty minutes later, he’s gettin tore intae a fajita efter ah tellt him tae tuck in first. Ah look at ma plate and wince. Ah still dinnae trust ma stomach.
“Yer gonnae dae sommat tae fuck this up,” OCD says.
“Shut up!” ah shout internally.
“Delicious,” he says.
Ma lips curl intae a wee smile. Ah’m clawin this wan back fae chunder queen tae girlfriend material wan bite at a time.
Eventually, ah help masel tae a fajita an aw. Ah’d put oan a wee bit o slap efter Sainsbury’s, but ah wis still conscious o the whitey in ma hair.
Oh God, ah hink, Donald’s baws probably smell mair bonnie than me the now.
“Ah projectile vomited intae ma mask,” ah say, unable tae ignore the elephant ah hink is in the room any langer.
“And it wis hilarious,” Billy says. “Ye’ve been funny since day wan.”
Ah’m beamin noo. Ah stand, puttin doon ma hauf empty plate. Ah’ve been through the mill this year, like every other bugger. It’s hard tae believe that ma luck micht huv changed. He stands an aw.
We look oot the windae. Fireworks sparkle above the city’s twinklin orange and yella lichts, rainin doon like multicoloured stars.
“Ah’m no aw funny though,” ah say. “Ah tellt ye before we met, ah’ve gat a problem, and if ye like me, OCD’s part o the deal an aw.”
“Ah know.”
“There’s some hings in ma life that ah’m never gonnae know fur sure,” ah say. “Those black spots oan nichts oot. Ah cannae remember every detail aboot ma life, and ah’m scared …”
He looks at me understandingly.
“It’s OK.”
“No, it’s naw. Ah cannae guarantee ye ah willnae cheat or sommat because ah dinnae trust ma ain brain. That’s whit it’s tellin me richt noo. Here’s this lovely lad and ye’re gonnae hurt him and no remember it. Ah could huv done so many terrible hings and no remember them, and the ainlie way ah can deal wi it is tae tell masel that it isnae me. Maybe ah wis possessed or sommat.”
“Ah’ve hud these thochts too.”
“Ye huv?”
“Aye. Ah’m no callin it OCD, but there’s been times when ah’ve worried fur weeks aboot whit may or may no huv happened oan a nicht oot,” he says.
“OCD latches oantae the hings ye care aboot, and ah like ye.”
Ah want tae trust Billy, but the ghosts o ma past are runnin riot in ma heid. The last hing ah want tae dae is hurt him.
“Ye can ainlie win by acceptin the thochts as true. It takes the wind oot their sails.”
He nods. “That makes sense.”
“How aboot we say wur open when ah cannae remember hings, and then ah cannae dae nought when yer no here tae hurt ye?”
“Ah’m guid wi that,” he says, smilin.
“Really?”
“Really.”
Bang. A rocket shoots up intae the darkness, whistlin through the closed windae. Its sparkles crackle through the sky.
“Ah wish it wis the New Year,” ah say. “But ah’m scared tae hope it’ll be better.”
“Well, wan hing’s fur sure, some hings are lookin up fur next year,” Billy says, gein ma arm a squeeze.
There’s another bang in the distance. Ah take his haun, and we look up at the nicht sky.
(c) Emma Grae, 2020
Emma Grae is a Scottish author and journalist from Glasgow. She has published fiction and poetry in the UK and Ireland since 2014 in journals including The Honest Ulsterman, From Glasgow to Saturn and The Open Mouse. Her first novel, be guid tae yer mammy, is being published by Unbound in May 2021.
Lois Tucker has done various bits and bobs and will probably end up doing more. Previous stuff includes penning and performing three solo shows as her silent comedy alter ego ‘Lois of the Lane’ and releasing the MissLLaneEous EP on Bandcamp. More details at: www.loistucker.net
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