lightly, on his door.
Looking through the peephole, wondered who told this girl from up the next stairs, Sonja, that he sold. The speed allowed for quick, if not accurate thought. Maybe she isnât here to score â like last time.
âHi, Patrick, she said. It sounded a bit like a question, so he answered:
âYeah, Sonja.
âI just thought Iâd bring this over. She held out the thickness of a bottle in brown paper.
âCool, thank you. He motioned for her to come up the step sheâd backed down.
She handed him the bottle her mother had bought.
âDo you wanna come in? he asked, because the stairwells at Brunei reverberated, and sound became like the graffiti â random and coarse.
âOkay.
He took the bottle out of the paper bag and looked at it, as if he knew something about wine. He was not sure how long he should keep looking at it.
âThank you, he said. And thank your mum, too.
âI will, she said and leaned on the bench in his kitchenette.
âSo howâve you been? Head okay?
âYeah, thanks. I started feeling better the next day.
âGood, good. So, how long have you lived here?
Sonja appeared nervous, and it was making him a little edgy too. But when she spoke his unease evaporated. Her voice was like nothing heâd heard â it was young, but not really a girlâs voice, and that accent, whatever it was, it was so cute. He wanted to hear it more.
âToo long, she said. About two years. My dadâs in hospital. But weâre able to keep the flat.
âOh. Iâm sorry.
âThatâs okay.
âYou like it here? Whitey asked.
âNah. I donât know, itâs a bit â
âYeah, I know.
âActually, Iâve got another favour to ask you, she said, looking down at the bench.
âYeah, okay, but Iâve, um, got friends coming over, maybe.
âOh.
âBut ask me, he said, and leaned on the bench next to her.
âOkay. Iâve, um, got this assignment from school, for English. We have to write about our community. I was hoping I could ask you some questions about, you know, living here, in these flats.
âSure, I guess, but Iâm not sure Iâm what youâre after.
âBut youâre easy to talk to, I mean, think I can talk to you. Is it okay?
âYeah, why not? Be fun to do some homework!
He opened the bottle while she went back home to get her assignment book. He drank half a tumblerful of the metallic wine and spat out some cork. The drink was quenching but hot. He found the soaked cork piece and put it in the sink. He would have to think of something to say to Sonja if anyone came to score. Or maybe he should just tell her the truth? He wanted to be honest with her. But he also wanted her to like him. Because he liked her. She kept getting prettier every moment he glanced at her. He had never been able to tell when girls liked him. It always seemed to come out of the blue. And when girls he had been into werenât attracted to him, it didnât really bother him. Of course it stabbed at first, but he was able to lose interest fairly quickly. But he wanted Sonja to like him. Did she? Or was she just a friendly girl, thanking him for the lift to the hospital? That seemed more likely. But he hoped that it was more. He hoped that she would come back with her assignment, like she said.
They sat at his coffee table, she on his two-seater, he on a cushioned milk crate. Maleness had shocked her nostrils when sheâd come right into his flat. But it wasnât offensive. It was so his. And she hoped she wouldnât get used to it â it made her feel alive. Sheâd had to quickly draw up the English task, because it was a lie that had come to her in the moment. It was reasonable though. Her English teacher, and the careers counsellor, had told her to write about anything that she felt she should write about. Of course, they were encouraging her to attempt several
Looking through the peephole, wondered who told this girl from up the next stairs, Sonja, that he sold. The speed allowed for quick, if not accurate thought. Maybe she isnât here to score â like last time.
âHi, Patrick, she said. It sounded a bit like a question, so he answered:
âYeah, Sonja.
âI just thought Iâd bring this over. She held out the thickness of a bottle in brown paper.
âCool, thank you. He motioned for her to come up the step sheâd backed down.
She handed him the bottle her mother had bought.
âDo you wanna come in? he asked, because the stairwells at Brunei reverberated, and sound became like the graffiti â random and coarse.
âOkay.
He took the bottle out of the paper bag and looked at it, as if he knew something about wine. He was not sure how long he should keep looking at it.
âThank you, he said. And thank your mum, too.
âI will, she said and leaned on the bench in his kitchenette.
âSo howâve you been? Head okay?
âYeah, thanks. I started feeling better the next day.
âGood, good. So, how long have you lived here?
Sonja appeared nervous, and it was making him a little edgy too. But when she spoke his unease evaporated. Her voice was like nothing heâd heard â it was young, but not really a girlâs voice, and that accent, whatever it was, it was so cute. He wanted to hear it more.
âToo long, she said. About two years. My dadâs in hospital. But weâre able to keep the flat.
âOh. Iâm sorry.
âThatâs okay.
âYou like it here? Whitey asked.
âNah. I donât know, itâs a bit â
âYeah, I know.
âActually, Iâve got another favour to ask you, she said, looking down at the bench.
âYeah, okay, but Iâve, um, got friends coming over, maybe.
âOh.
âBut ask me, he said, and leaned on the bench next to her.
âOkay. Iâve, um, got this assignment from school, for English. We have to write about our community. I was hoping I could ask you some questions about, you know, living here, in these flats.
âSure, I guess, but Iâm not sure Iâm what youâre after.
âBut youâre easy to talk to, I mean, think I can talk to you. Is it okay?
âYeah, why not? Be fun to do some homework!
He opened the bottle while she went back home to get her assignment book. He drank half a tumblerful of the metallic wine and spat out some cork. The drink was quenching but hot. He found the soaked cork piece and put it in the sink. He would have to think of something to say to Sonja if anyone came to score. Or maybe he should just tell her the truth? He wanted to be honest with her. But he also wanted her to like him. Because he liked her. She kept getting prettier every moment he glanced at her. He had never been able to tell when girls liked him. It always seemed to come out of the blue. And when girls he had been into werenât attracted to him, it didnât really bother him. Of course it stabbed at first, but he was able to lose interest fairly quickly. But he wanted Sonja to like him. Did she? Or was she just a friendly girl, thanking him for the lift to the hospital? That seemed more likely. But he hoped that it was more. He hoped that she would come back with her assignment, like she said.
They sat at his coffee table, she on his two-seater, he on a cushioned milk crate. Maleness had shocked her nostrils when sheâd come right into his flat. But it wasnât offensive. It was so his. And she hoped she wouldnât get used to it â it made her feel alive. Sheâd had to quickly draw up the English task, because it was a lie that had come to her in the moment. It was reasonable though. Her English teacher, and the careers counsellor, had told her to write about anything that she felt she should write about. Of course, they were encouraging her to attempt several
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