again? she asked.
âI dunno. Because I was asked, I guess.
âShouldnât you worry about getting busted. Again?
âYeah.
But he didnât worry. Or at least heâd reasoned with the worry. People had always put too much faith in him â in his judgment and his self-confidence. Saw in him something he couldnât see in himself. Heâd been able, on a number of occasions, to threaten â effectively â when there was just no violence in him to back it up. It was the same with selling. People thought he should do it, so he did â on the strength of othersâ opinions. He was, it seemed, shackled with an image, a persona, with a will of its own, that knew how to act, whereas heâd actually never learned. But it did at least tow him along in life.
And it wasnât Natâs hypocritical questioning of his dealing or his life outside that really bothered him â she smoked his cones and dipped into the goey â it was her presumption that he wanted her advice and opinions. Or even her vagina, or her presence.
She said he was sulky since heâd gotten out.
But he didnât dislike her enough to ask her not to come around anymore â he couldnât have given her a real reason anyway â so he stayed sulky, and ignorant, and withdrew.
SIX
His car was in the carport, as it had been on the several other occasions Sonja had walked towards his flat, but had found small reasons in the asphalt not to go further. It was the only car to be seen within at least six carports â that is, of course, except for the police cruisers that came and went with alarming regularity. She hadnât seen him since the hospital. Maybe heâd moved and left his car. She hoped not. She wanted to know someone, someone who lived here; and heâd been so close. And she hadnât been able to stop thinking about him at all. And the fact that he lived so close â actually in this same block of unattractive flats â was driving her wild. Sheâd felt so confused, and then depressed, after that day with Raz. Itâd been, as she predicted, the last time they spoke, let alone spent time together. For a while she thought she might love Raz, because she couldnât stop thinking about him. But eventually, and a bit disappointingly, she realised it was simply that â although sheâd never ask him â she wanted to know what he thought of her, why heâd acted so bizarrely. But since the day of the hospital, any thought of Raz was totally eclipsed. This new boy had cured her of him. And filled her with a new set of feelings that burnedhotter, but were much more positive than those Raz had caused her to suffer.
So she climbed the steps â uncomfortably identical to the ones leading to her own door â and knocked, wincing with what could be such a naive act. She could see no movement through the peephole, but could sense it. The door opened.
âHi, he said, and then, as though the gods were watching, she thought, Sonja, is it?
He didnât seem as tall, but darker, and with much bluer eyes than sheâd remembered from that day in his car.
âYeah, hi. I donât actually know your name, she said, and was unexpectedly pleased with her response which seemed so mature and clear.
âOh, itâs Patrick. Sorry, I thought I told your mum.
âYou probably did. She forgets Australian names.
âWell, I hope there hasnât been another accident. He smiled with one side of his mouth.
âNo, no. I, um, just wanted to thank you, you know, properly, and to get you something, but I didnât know what to get.
âNo, nothing. You donât need to get me anything. Weâre neighbours, right? he said, maybe reddening a little, Sonja saw.
âPlease. My mum insists, Sonja lied. We thought maybe a case of beer.
âA case ? No. Maybe a bottle, he said, leaning further out the doorway.
âWhat about a bottle of
âI dunno. Because I was asked, I guess.
âShouldnât you worry about getting busted. Again?
âYeah.
But he didnât worry. Or at least heâd reasoned with the worry. People had always put too much faith in him â in his judgment and his self-confidence. Saw in him something he couldnât see in himself. Heâd been able, on a number of occasions, to threaten â effectively â when there was just no violence in him to back it up. It was the same with selling. People thought he should do it, so he did â on the strength of othersâ opinions. He was, it seemed, shackled with an image, a persona, with a will of its own, that knew how to act, whereas heâd actually never learned. But it did at least tow him along in life.
And it wasnât Natâs hypocritical questioning of his dealing or his life outside that really bothered him â she smoked his cones and dipped into the goey â it was her presumption that he wanted her advice and opinions. Or even her vagina, or her presence.
She said he was sulky since heâd gotten out.
But he didnât dislike her enough to ask her not to come around anymore â he couldnât have given her a real reason anyway â so he stayed sulky, and ignorant, and withdrew.
SIX
His car was in the carport, as it had been on the several other occasions Sonja had walked towards his flat, but had found small reasons in the asphalt not to go further. It was the only car to be seen within at least six carports â that is, of course, except for the police cruisers that came and went with alarming regularity. She hadnât seen him since the hospital. Maybe heâd moved and left his car. She hoped not. She wanted to know someone, someone who lived here; and heâd been so close. And she hadnât been able to stop thinking about him at all. And the fact that he lived so close â actually in this same block of unattractive flats â was driving her wild. Sheâd felt so confused, and then depressed, after that day with Raz. Itâd been, as she predicted, the last time they spoke, let alone spent time together. For a while she thought she might love Raz, because she couldnât stop thinking about him. But eventually, and a bit disappointingly, she realised it was simply that â although sheâd never ask him â she wanted to know what he thought of her, why heâd acted so bizarrely. But since the day of the hospital, any thought of Raz was totally eclipsed. This new boy had cured her of him. And filled her with a new set of feelings that burnedhotter, but were much more positive than those Raz had caused her to suffer.
So she climbed the steps â uncomfortably identical to the ones leading to her own door â and knocked, wincing with what could be such a naive act. She could see no movement through the peephole, but could sense it. The door opened.
âHi, he said, and then, as though the gods were watching, she thought, Sonja, is it?
He didnât seem as tall, but darker, and with much bluer eyes than sheâd remembered from that day in his car.
âYeah, hi. I donât actually know your name, she said, and was unexpectedly pleased with her response which seemed so mature and clear.
âOh, itâs Patrick. Sorry, I thought I told your mum.
âYou probably did. She forgets Australian names.
âWell, I hope there hasnât been another accident. He smiled with one side of his mouth.
âNo, no. I, um, just wanted to thank you, you know, properly, and to get you something, but I didnât know what to get.
âNo, nothing. You donât need to get me anything. Weâre neighbours, right? he said, maybe reddening a little, Sonja saw.
âPlease. My mum insists, Sonja lied. We thought maybe a case of beer.
âA case ? No. Maybe a bottle, he said, leaning further out the doorway.
âWhat about a bottle of
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