well, which is kind of weird, but also makes me feel sort of cool.
Michael is an insane skater. He doesn’t skate past me, he
flies
, and everything slows and I watch his face turn towards me and this smile, his smile, stretches outwards and then he just vanishes, leaving only dragon breath. I, in comparison, fall over seven times.
After I’ve been wobbling around on the ice for quite some time, he decides to take pity and skate with me. I clutch his hands, trying not to fall flat on my face, as he skates backwards, pulling me along and laughing so hard at my concentration-face that tiny tears emerge out of the corner of his eyes. Once I get the hang of things, we figure-skate round the rink to ‘Radio People’
by Zapp, an underrated eighties gem and coincidentally my favourite song from
Ferris Bueller’s Day Off
. On the way out, after an hour or so, he shows me the picture of him on the Skating Club board, aged ten, holding a trophy high above his head.
There’s no one in town apart from a few oldies. Sleepy Sunday. We visit all the antique shops. I play on a second-hand violin and I manage to remember a surprisingly large number of pieces. Michael joins in on a piano, and we jam until the shop owners decide we’re too annoying and chuck us out. In another shop, we find this amazing kaleidoscope. It’s wooden and slides outwards like a telescope and we take it in turns gazing at the patterns until Michael decides to buy it. It’s expensive too. I ask him why he bought it. He says because he didn’t like the thought of no one ever looking into it.
We walk along the river and throw stones in and play Pooh Sticks on the bridge. We go back to Café Rivière for a late lunch and more tea for Michael. We go to the cinema to see
Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back
, which, of course, is excellent, and then we hang around to watch
Dirty Dancing
because apparently it’s ‘Back to the Eighties’ day.
Dirty Dancing
is a very stupid film. The main girl is probably the most irritating individual I have ever had the misfortune to encounter. Mostly due to her outfits. And her voice.
Midway through the film, I get another message on my blog.
Anonymous:
Thought for the day: Why do people leave newspapers on trains?
I show this one to Michael.
“What a
fantastic
question,” he says.
I fail to see how it’s a fantastic question, so I delete it, just like I did the other one.
I don’t know what the time is, but it’s getting dark now. We go back to the Dying Sun. A little further along the cliff is Michael’s house, glowing against the sky. This clifftop really is the best place in the world. The best end of the universe.
We balance on the edge, letting the wind flow past our ears. I dangle my legs off and, after some persuasion, so does he.
“The sun’s setting,” he says.
“The sun also rises,” I say, before I can stop myself.
His head turns like a robot. “Say that again.”
“What?”
“Say that again.”
“Say what?”
“What you just said.”
I sigh. “
The Sun Also Rises
.”
“And who, might I ask, wrote that literary gem?”
I sigh again. “Ernest Hemingway.”
He starts shaking his head. “You hate literature. You hate it. You can’t even bring yourself to read
Pride and Prejudice
.”
“…”
“Name three other Hemingway novels.”
“Really? You’re really going to ask me to do that?”
He smiles.
I roll my eyes. “
For Whom the Bell Tolls. The Old Man and the Sea. A Farewell to Arms
.”
His mouth opens in astonishment.
“It’s not like I’ve read any of them.”
“Now I’m going to have to test you.”
“Jesus.”
“Who wrote
The Bell Jar
?”
“…”
“Don’t pretend you don’t know it, Spring.”
That’s the first time he’s called me by my surname only. I’m not sure what this says about our relationship.
“Fine. Sylvia Plath.”
“Who wrote
The Catcher in the Rye
?”
“J.D. Salinger. You’re giving me really easy ones.”
“Okay
Michael is an insane skater. He doesn’t skate past me, he
flies
, and everything slows and I watch his face turn towards me and this smile, his smile, stretches outwards and then he just vanishes, leaving only dragon breath. I, in comparison, fall over seven times.
After I’ve been wobbling around on the ice for quite some time, he decides to take pity and skate with me. I clutch his hands, trying not to fall flat on my face, as he skates backwards, pulling me along and laughing so hard at my concentration-face that tiny tears emerge out of the corner of his eyes. Once I get the hang of things, we figure-skate round the rink to ‘Radio People’
by Zapp, an underrated eighties gem and coincidentally my favourite song from
Ferris Bueller’s Day Off
. On the way out, after an hour or so, he shows me the picture of him on the Skating Club board, aged ten, holding a trophy high above his head.
There’s no one in town apart from a few oldies. Sleepy Sunday. We visit all the antique shops. I play on a second-hand violin and I manage to remember a surprisingly large number of pieces. Michael joins in on a piano, and we jam until the shop owners decide we’re too annoying and chuck us out. In another shop, we find this amazing kaleidoscope. It’s wooden and slides outwards like a telescope and we take it in turns gazing at the patterns until Michael decides to buy it. It’s expensive too. I ask him why he bought it. He says because he didn’t like the thought of no one ever looking into it.
We walk along the river and throw stones in and play Pooh Sticks on the bridge. We go back to Café Rivière for a late lunch and more tea for Michael. We go to the cinema to see
Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back
, which, of course, is excellent, and then we hang around to watch
Dirty Dancing
because apparently it’s ‘Back to the Eighties’ day.
Dirty Dancing
is a very stupid film. The main girl is probably the most irritating individual I have ever had the misfortune to encounter. Mostly due to her outfits. And her voice.
Midway through the film, I get another message on my blog.
Anonymous:
Thought for the day: Why do people leave newspapers on trains?
I show this one to Michael.
“What a
fantastic
question,” he says.
I fail to see how it’s a fantastic question, so I delete it, just like I did the other one.
I don’t know what the time is, but it’s getting dark now. We go back to the Dying Sun. A little further along the cliff is Michael’s house, glowing against the sky. This clifftop really is the best place in the world. The best end of the universe.
We balance on the edge, letting the wind flow past our ears. I dangle my legs off and, after some persuasion, so does he.
“The sun’s setting,” he says.
“The sun also rises,” I say, before I can stop myself.
His head turns like a robot. “Say that again.”
“What?”
“Say that again.”
“Say what?”
“What you just said.”
I sigh. “
The Sun Also Rises
.”
“And who, might I ask, wrote that literary gem?”
I sigh again. “Ernest Hemingway.”
He starts shaking his head. “You hate literature. You hate it. You can’t even bring yourself to read
Pride and Prejudice
.”
“…”
“Name three other Hemingway novels.”
“Really? You’re really going to ask me to do that?”
He smiles.
I roll my eyes. “
For Whom the Bell Tolls. The Old Man and the Sea. A Farewell to Arms
.”
His mouth opens in astonishment.
“It’s not like I’ve read any of them.”
“Now I’m going to have to test you.”
“Jesus.”
“Who wrote
The Bell Jar
?”
“…”
“Don’t pretend you don’t know it, Spring.”
That’s the first time he’s called me by my surname only. I’m not sure what this says about our relationship.
“Fine. Sylvia Plath.”
“Who wrote
The Catcher in the Rye
?”
“J.D. Salinger. You’re giving me really easy ones.”
“Okay
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