Open Water, Caleb Nelson [best summer books txt] 📗

man and a good writer. Hmm. Honest man. You’re being honest, here, now.

You came here to speak of what it means to love your best friend. Ask: if flexing is being able to say the most in the fewest number of words, is there a greater flex than love? Nowhere to hide, nowhere to go. A direct gaze.

The gaze requires no words at all; it is an honest meeting.

You came here to speak of shame and its relation to desire. There should be no shame in openly saying, I want this. There should be no shame in not knowing what one wants.

You came here to ask her if she remembers how urgent that kiss was. Twisted in her covers in the darkness. No words at all. An honest meeting. You saw nothing but her familiar shape. You listened to her gentle, measured breaths and understood what you wanted.

It is a strange thing, to desire your best friend; two pairs of hands wandering past boundaries, asking forgiveness rather than permission: ‘Is this OK?’ coming a fraction after the motion.

Sometimes, you cry in the dark.

1

The first night you met, a night you both negate as too brief an encounter, you pull your friend Samuel to the side. There’s a bunch of you in the basement of this ­south-­east London pub. A birthday celebration. Most on their way to drunk, or jolly, depending on which they’d prefer.

‘What’s up?’

‘I don’t normally do this.’

‘Usually means this is something you’ve done before.’

‘No, promise. Pinky promise,’ you say. ‘But I need you to introduce me to your friend.’

You’d like to say that in this moment, the older gentleman spinning records had faded something fast, something like Curtis Mayfield’s ‘Move On Up’, into something equally so. You’d like to say it was the Isley Brothers, ‘Fight the Power’, playing when you expressed a desire you did not wholly understand, but knew you must act upon. You’d like to say, behind you, the dance floor heaved and the young moved like it was the eighties, where to move in this way was but one of a few freedoms afforded to those who came before. And since you’re remem­bering this, the liberty is yours. But you did promise to be honest. The reality was you were so taken aback by the presence of this woman that you first reached to shake her hand, before opening up for the usual wide embrace, the result an awkward flapping of your arms.

‘Hi,’ you say.

‘Hello.’

She smiles a little. You don’t know what to say. You want to fill the gap but nothing comes. You stand, watching each other, in a silence that does not feel uncomfortable. You imagine the look on her face is mirroring yours, one of curiosity.

‘You’re both artists,’ Samuel says, a helpful interruption. ‘She’s a very talented dancer.’ The woman shakes her head. ‘And you?’ she says. ‘What do you do?’

‘He’s a photographer.’

‘A photographer?’ the woman repeats.

‘I take pictures, sometimes.’

‘Sounds like you’re a photographer.’

‘Sometimes, sometimes.’

‘Coy.’ Shy, you think. You leap across the conversation and watch as she darts after you. A red light leans across her face, and you catch a glimpse of something, something like kindness in her open features, her eyes watching your hands talk. It’s a familiar tongue you note, definitely south of the river. Definitely somewhere you’d be more likely to call home. In this way there are things which you both know and speak with your very being, but here go unsaid.

‘Do you want a drink? Can I get you a drink?’ You turn, no­­ticing Samuel for the first time since the conversation started. He’s receded, slumped a little; he’s smiling, but his body betrays he’s feeling shut out. Feeling the sting of guilt, you try to welcome him back in.

‘Do you guys want drinks?’

The woman’s face splits open with genuine, kind amusement and, as it does so, there’s a hand on your elbow. You’re being pulled away; you’re needed. The dance floor has cleared a little and there is a silence filled with all that is yet to come. There’s cake and candles and an attempted harmony during ‘Happy Birthday’. You slide your camera from where it swings on your shoulder, training your lens on the birthday girl, Nina, as she makes a wish, the solitary candle on her cake like a tiny sunshine. When the crowd begins to disperse, you are tugged in every direction. As the solo cameraman, it is your duty to document.

The music starts up once more. People stand in small bunches, pausing as you focus in on kind faces looming in the darkness. The older gentleman spinning records continues on at pace. Idris Muhammad’s ‘Could Heaven Ever Be Like This’ fits.

Emerging from the crowd, you stand at the bar and crane your long neck in several directions. It is here, when you seek the woman once more, on the night in question, a night you both negate as too brief an encounter, you realize she is gone.

2

These are winter months. A warm ­winter – the night you met her, you misjudged the distance from the station to the pub and, having walked half an hour wearing only the shirt on your back, arrived ­self-­conscious of the sweat on your ­forehead – but a winter nonetheless. It is the wrong season to have a crush. Meeting someone on a summer’s evening is like giving a dead flame new life. You are more likely to wander outside with this person for a reprieve from whatever sweatbox you are being housed in. You might find yourself accepting the offer of a cigarette, your eyes narrowing as the nicotine tickles your brain and you exhale into the stiff heat of a London night. You might look towards the sky and realize the blue doesn’t quite deepen during these months. In winter, you are content to scoop your ashes away and head home.

You mention the woman to your younger brother, who had been at the party too, building him an image from what you remember of the evening, like weaving