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

of stairs, travel up an escalator. You’re a little breathless, a little sweaty, but if she notices, she doesn’t say anything, not with her mouth nor roving eyes.

When you settle down, it’s on a green felt sofa, made of two halves. You dance through topics like two old friends, finding comfort in a language which is instantly familiar. You create a small world for yourselves, and for you both only, sitting on this sofa, looking out at the world which has a tendency to engulf even the most alive.

‘Last time we met, you said you were a photographer,’ she says.

‘No, someone told you I was a photographer, and I squirmed at the idea,’ you say.

‘Why?’

‘You did the same when your dancing was brought up?’

‘You didn’t answer my question.’

‘I dunno,’ you say. ‘But yeah, I take photographs.’ On the other side of the window, Piccadilly bustles. A man swells his bagpipes, the sound drifting up towards you. Friday evening and the city is bordering on frenzy, unsure of what to do with itself.

‘I guess,’ you start up. ‘I guess, it’s like knowing that you are something and wanting to protect that? I know I’m a photographer, but if someone else says I’m that, it changes things because what they think about me isn’t what I think about me. Sorry, I’m rambling.’

‘I get what you’re saying. But why does what someone else thinks about you change what you think about you?’

‘It shouldn’t.’

‘You’re very good at not answering questions.’

‘Am I? I don’t mean to be.’

‘I’m playing with you,’ she says, and indeed the smile in your direction is light and teasing.

‘It’­s –’ You pause, frowning to yourself as you reach for the right expression. ‘You can’t live in a vacuum. And when you let people in and you make yourself vulnerable, they’re able to have an effect on you. If that makes sense.’

‘It does.’

‘What about you? The dancing thing?’

‘Mmm. Maybe later. We keep digressing.’

‘We do.’

‘What do you think? About my idea? I want to document people, Black people. Archiving is important, I think. But as I said, I don’t know the first thing about photography, and it would be cool to have you involved. Could be cool to do together.’

‘Erm,’ you say, letting the silence stretch and hold. ‘I, yeah, no. No, I don’t think I want to do it.’

‘Huh?’ Less of a question, more an involuntary noise. She sinks into the sofa, covering her whole self with her coat, and you watch it rise and fall like a duvet over a sleeping body.

‘Hey,’ you say. A forehead appears, followed by a strong set of eyebrows and a pair of eyes, wary and watchful. You watch her struggle with her discomfort.

‘I’m joking. I’ll do it. I wanna do it.’

The struggle continues and, when her face changes, it is because of reluctant appreciation. A jester meeting her match.

‘I hate you. So much. So so much.’ She checks the time. You’ve been sitting here for almost two hours.

‘Should we have a drink? To celebrate this new . . . partnership? I need a drink.’

You’re glad she asked.

You move from the mezzanine to the ground floor of the bar. The night is trailing after you, unable to keep up. A pair of ­low-­bowled glasses sits half full on the table in front of you. They aren’t your first, or second, or third drink. You are a little dizzy, trying to grasp what is happening. Much of your joy is lost in the need to hold it, intact, so you try to dull that voice which needs clarity, taking another sip. This is fine, you think, this feels right. She returns from the toilet, taking long strides towards you. The reflection of Leicester Square’s lights dances on the glass. She reaches up, fingertips grazing the window, as if light is something that can be held. As she does so, her balance shifts, and her head makes a slow descent into your lap, coming to rest for a tender moment. And as she comes, she goes, giggling as she rises up to reach for the elegant glow.

This night is also the first you see the lazy sheer sheen which sits on her eyes when she’s been drinking. Sweet conversation from sour lips, the salt on the rim of the glass perched on the tongue.

Later, you are in the Shake Shack next to Leicester Square. You stand in the queue, two sheets to the wind, swaying in a ­man-­made breeze. You pay for the ­food – she bought the last round of ­drinks – and huddle together on a pair of high chairs. She orders a burger with chopped chillis, cheesy fries which she can’t finish and insists you do (she hates wasting food). During the first few bites, she untangles a pair of white headphones and offers an ear, slender fingers dancing across her phone screen, searching for music. And now let’s ask the general public: Was anyone in Shake Shack that night? Did anyone else see or hear two strangers performing their truths for each other? Did they fill the pockets of the beat? Did they ride Kendrick’s ­jazz-­infused ­masterpiece with the same energy he intended?

On the way back to ­south-­east London, a small joy, but a joy nonetheless. You ricochet through the dark underbelly of London. Noisy, black, hot and hellish. You peel back layers like a hand splitting the soft flesh of fruit. Beside you, she once more is working on a sailor’s knot in her earphones. The hitch comes undone with a silent twang, and she slides one bud in her ear, the other in yours. Two people closing a distance made shorter by the trailing wires holding them together.

‘What’s your favourite song?’ she asks, having to lean in to make herself heard over the Underground.

Above ground, you are comfortable with the theatrics of playing yourselves. When she tells you she attended the concert in question, you walk away for a moment, returning to her, feigning playful anger, feeling real envy. You speak, quick and urgent, as you weave down