The Lesser Bohemians by Eimear McBride

you’re from then? No, Sheffield. And your mother? Dead, a long time dead. How long? Don’t know    I was in my early twenties. I’m sorry. I’m not, do you want another drink? Alright, I say Thanks. And the food goes over and I watch him eat, liking long fingers manoeuvring chopsticks thinking God I fancy him something wicked. What? he asks. Nothing, I say.
    Once he’s paid we go to the street, salt dark now but hot with seething. Tube? he asks Or a bit more walking? I could walk a bit. So he’s off and I’m after. Charing Cross Road. On it me saying My friend’s boyfriend knows you. Oh right, does he? What’s his name? No I mean, from the stage. Small pool, he shrugs. So are you famous? Well am I famous to you? No, I say. Then there you go, let’s make a stop in Foyles.
    Upstairs in second-hand, he finds it – I knew I’d seen it here. I’m going to get this for you. What is it? I ask. Book about Marlowe, you’ll like it, it’ll help with your play. You shouldn’t, I fluster Anyway, isn’t there some weird paying thing? Yeah, Soviet three-queue system, I’ll be right back. So I follow him with the track of my eye, cheek to the shelf and tired by the weight of all I don’t know.
    You alright? he asks, handing it over. I Thanks, go to kiss his cheek. But there it is in the turning dust. Oh no, he warns No kissing in Foyles. Maybe though, just because I am already close, he kisses me anyway. And more, until Excuse me, we’re closing up! I Anthony Burgess over my mouth. He offers the intruder a grave Of course, me a significant eyebrow and Alright jailbait, let’s go.
    Quick down the stairwell together and out. Cross betweentraffic on Oxford Street. Past the Virgin Megastore. Up the Tottenham Court Road. Past sex shops. Electric shops. Let’s cut down. So Torrington Place then. Across Gower Street. I went there, he points back. Posh! Not really, scholarship. Nips into Dillon’s for a new Time Out. Over Malet Street. Byng Place. Gordon Square. Out by Wellcome building to the Euston Road. And we go across it, glittering, in buses, cabs and the race of things. Night upon us and I must quick to keep with his long legs. As he lights up on Eversholt Street, I ask Will you tell me what your script’s about? It’s about someone falling off a roof. Is it based on you? Ah! he says You remember that? Is it? A little. How come you did? The usual, a problem of balance, and drugs. So because you were high? No, because I usually was and things a little got out of hand when I stopped. When was that? I ask. Oh years ago – probably when you were two. Do you miss them? The drugs? I nod. Sometimes but not enough – Royal Mail depot – to go back. And won’t you miss acting while you’re writing? He says I might, acting’s been a lot of my life but it’s time now for something else. Walk quieter then – quick took looks at him. Tall and straight. Proverbial thin. His face showing different in the light and dark. What? he asks. Nothing, I shrug as the drunks go fight up Oakley Square.
    By Mornington Crescent, legs wore from wear, I ask Can we get the tube? Sorry, eternally closed for repairs. The Palace pumps to our right though won’t get going until late. Oh we’re in Camden, I see. High road spilling up for the night. So weave we through serious clouds of spliff. If you’re tired we could stop at the Liberties for a drink? I’m alright, I say, divining junctions ahead and the hope in me wanting him to be explicit. He, oblivious, only moves us through so by the World’s End I stop. In here? he says It’ll be a meat market tonight. No,I point to the Kentish Town Road sign. Oh right, you going home? Guess me guess me with your grey eyes. Shame, he says I was hoping you’d want another go on me tonight. There it is, on a plate, and he only giving smallest smile. I suppose I owe you