9 comments/ 10605 views/ 2 favorites Triangles By: alex_d Until Aisling dropped her bombshell, it was one of the more enjoyable birthdays I'd had, despite being newly single, a year or two on the wrong side of thirty five and my ego smarting from being dumped for (and this is where people telling the story would drop their voices to a whisper) a teenager. James's card was on the table beside all the others. At least he'd had the decency not to write the kid's name on it too. It was all very civilized. We were not-talking about James at all until Lauren, late as usual, breezed into the restaurant with a shiny faced, red-haired man in tow. "Sorry I'm late, darlings," she said, kissing the air around everyone's cheeks. "Happy birthday, Chris." The violet envelope of her card matched her lipstick. When we had finished laughing at the joke on the card and I was wearing the "Old Git" badge that came with it, she spotted the card from James, took a long drink of her wine and laughed. "Honestly, the cheek of him, sending you a card. Do you know, they're living together already? I just can't imagine being with someone of eighteen. You wouldn't know whether to fuck him or adopt him." There were a few twitching mouths around the table, giggles smothered into napkins. Of course I knew James and the student had shacked up. I didn't know how much I missed him as a person, but I certainly missed the sex. He was incredible in bed; unfortunately not so good at all the other bits of a relationship, like conversation, empathy and doing his share of the housework. Sex was the smokescreen he hid behind when there was something important to be discussed, or when I was annoyed about something... somehow I'd find myself on my back, getting fucked so hard (and so good, that was the whole problem) I'd lose the ability to speak. When he finally moved out, I had to buy a new bed. We'd shattered the frame of the last one, and the headboard banging against the wall had made cracks spider up the plaster until it flaked down on our writing bodies like confetti. The plasterer said it looked like the whole room was going to cave in on itself. Lauren tapped the empty bottle of Chianti to the distant waiter, mouthing one more. Her fingers were long and thin and played with her cutlery. I knew she wanted to smoke. The light danced off her knife into my eyes for a second, leaving its echo in my vision as I focussed on the red-haired man who was sitting beside her. "By the way everyone, this is Harrison, the one I was telling you about. Say hello, Harrison." She waved her hand vaguely around the group. I didn't know if she was talking to us or to him. He smiled around the table. He had very shiny lips and crooked teeth. I wondered what it would be like to kiss him. The idea made me feel slightly sick so I excused myself as Aisling started making polite conversation, and Harrison started talking. The bathroom was dark and lit from below. The shadows crawling up my face were definitely not flattering and made me look as if I was narrating a horror story. I splashed water on my cheeks and took deep breaths. I didn't want to take part in Lauren's little game, mocking what she called "lesser mortals". Poor Harrison, if only he knew. But I knew I would go along with her, despite myself. A part of me was sick of always doing the right thing, and the alcohol was making me evil. I was even thinking of ditching the party and heading to the Kremlin, see if I couldn't pull myself a student of my own. Take that, Jimmy boy. You aren't the only knob around here having a premature midlife crisis . Waking up in an empty bed in the mornings was a new and unwelcome feeling, like I was adrift somehow, in too much silky space. When I got back to the table, Harrison was still talking. Lauren's face was a picture of fascination, her eyes wandering over his face like a scientist discovering a new strain of bacteria as his slobbery mouth kept on spitting out the syllables in that thick country accent. He was telling us about a course he'd just finished. "The practical was right and tough, so it was." he said, scratching his belly. "Right and tough. Aye, it really ..." A crease appeared between his eyebrows for a second as he searched for the metaphor. "Separated the men from the goats, like." Lauren seemed unfazed. "I suppose that's something you have to do a lot in the countryside," she said, and I had to turn away, trying to stop my shoulders from shaking. Harrison stopped talking and looked around the table, comprehension started in his lips, which pressed together until they lost their colour. His eyebrows flattened into a frown and his eyes narrowed as he looked at Lauren. "Youse are taking the piss. Right?" "Of course not!" The shocked look on Lauren's face could have won an Oscar. But he looked at the rest of us, all masking our giggles with varying degrees of success. He stopped talking and pretended to study the dessert menu, his mouth clenched tight like a shiny arsehole. That thought sent me into more helpless laughter and he shot me a glare. Tim cleared his throat and started talking about his troublesome new neighbour, and I turned my attention to him, glad of the distraction. Another bottle of champagne arrived at the table with a spiky-haired waiter. He flashed me a nervous smile as he managed to fill our glasses without spilling a drop. I sat back, smiling back, noting his dimples, the piercing in his tongue. Nice. Maybe I wouldn't need to go to the Kremlin after all. He wasn't young in the James's student sense, but his black jeans clung to his arse in a very inviting way. He saw me staring and looked away, a faint flush rising in his cheeks. Lauren tapped the side of glass and stood up. "As it's nearly midnight, I want to lead a final toast to our birthday boy here...Chris," She nodded in my direction and smiled, "And...to absent friends." "Absent friends." The mutter rippled around the table. As our glasses clinked together, I became aware of meaningful glances darting about like hummingbirds. Aisling lifted her bag off the floor and cleared her throat. "Talking of absent friends," she said. "This came for you, in the post." She reached me a red envelope. My name was there in brackets, looping over Aisling's address, where I'd never lived. But the writing was distinctive. I remembered that Cynthia didn't know the address of my new flat. I turned the envelope over in my hands for a second, running my fingertip over the Australian stamp. Too thin to have much inside. Maybe a photograph. I realised that everyone was looking at me, even Harrison, who had come out of his funk. Before my hands could start trembling, I tore it open. It was a simple card, a cartoon kangaroo on the front wearing boxing gloves and saying in a speech bubble, have a knockout time on your birthday! I opened it up. "To Chris," it read. "Love from Cynthia, Mark, Lily and Stephen." The kids had signed their own names and peppered the card with kisses and hugs. Mark had not signed his own name. I felt a heartbeat of disappointment, and took another drink of champagne. My buzz was fading fast. There was a photograph enclosed. I put it down on the table so everyone could get a look. A family, on a beach. Cynthia had cut her blonde hair short, and it was thick and bleached with sand and salt water. She had an arm around each of her kids. They were tanned and grinning, white teeth in sun-darkened faces, pasty Irish complexions long gone. Stephen had a model sailboat in his arms. Lily looked tall and slim in a green bikini, her brown eyes shining. And Mark kneeling beside Lily, off to the right, not looking at the camera. His hair had grown longer than I had ever remembered it, the curls heavy with tears of seawater. There was a distant expression on his face as he looked out towards the expanse of ocean on his left, grabbing a handful of sand. I resisted the temptation to touch his face with my fingertip and passed it over to Aisling, who wanted a closer look. "Lily's the spit of Mark, isn't she," Lauren's voice in my ear. "She's a right young lady these days, certainly looks older than twelve." "They're coming back," Aisling said suddenly. "What?" My fingers danced along the edge of the dessert spoon. I could see my flesh touching it, but I couldn't feel anything. All the scaffolding I had built around my heart, the reasons and excuses and justifications, all the stories I'd made up and self help clichés I'd taken on board, all of which had helped me through the last two years, they were starting to shake, and I felt faint. "Mate, what happened?" Tim said, leaning forward. "Why don't you guys talk any more? You used to be..." "It's going to be no fun for us, them coming back, " Lauren said, talking over him. "And then we can't pretend anymore that we aren't keeping in touch with them, or that we don't know full well you're persona non grata or whatever. Isn't it about time you fessed up and sorted this shit out? So we can all be friends again?" I opened my mouth and closed it again. I felt sweat start to prickle on my forehead. "Is this an intervention? If Cyn wants you to know, I'm sure you can ask her," I said. "Funny," Aisling said. "That's what Cyn said about you." They looked at me. I looked at them and wondered what to say. = = = = = She was my first and last girlfriend, way back when I was twenty years old and wore black all the time and still thought I would change the world with my literary outpourings. It was a tutorial on one of Shakespeare's plays. I was coming down from a night on the weed, and hadn't read it. I was furtively sneaking a look at my copy of York Notes when she came in late and sat down beside me, bringing the smell of the autumn air. Dr. French fancied himself as a thespian and was heavily involved in the amateur dramatics society. He strode around in his tweeds, forcing us to imagine the scene he was talking about with sweeping hand gestures and a dramatic twitching of his moustache. "Of course, it's a very sexual scene," he said, pausing in front of us. "The phallic imagery of the trumpets and fifes is very strong, very vivid." Her explosion of laughter echoed around the musty room. "Oh come on," she said. "Do you really think Shakespeare was sitting there thinking, must put some cock into the scene, oh I know, some trumpets? Isn't that reading a bit much into it?" Dr French flushed and looked at his hands as if he didn't know what to do with her so he carried on talking. Biting my fist to keep from laughing, I looked at her from underneath the long fringe I'd been cultivating. Her violet eyes were lined with smudged black liner, wisps of her blonde hair falling out of the colourful knitted hat she'd bundled it up in. Her denim shorts were loose and ripped. She was wearing orange tights and knee high shiny Doc Marten boots. The tips of her fingers peeked out from the long sleeves of the oversized military style coat she was wearing. I didn't expect her to say yes when I invited her back to my flat to smoke some weed, but she did, and we walked together through swirls of crisp autumn leaves. It felt right when she slipped her small hand in the crook of my arm. Even as strangers we felt comfortable together, not making stupid small talk. As we passed the pub, she looked in wistfully. "There's a gorgeous barman in there," she said. "But he doesn't work on Tuesdays." "Let's go tomorrow then," I said, and she looked at me and smiled. There was a dimple in her left cheek, and I touched it with my fingertip. That night, I lay with my head on her stomach, listening to the gurgling sounds. My throat and lungs were on fire. I was so stoned I could barely see. She stroked my hair and we talked until the sky brightened and the sunlight started to crawl up the sheet towards us, by which time we were already half in love. She moved in with me two weeks later. The only time we spent apart was for our different lectures. She was sharp and funny, and I even started reading the set material for Dr. French's classes just so we could discuss it together, so I could listen to her talk. She made me read the stories I'd started and never finished, the scraps of ideas I scribbled down every morning when I woke from the crazy dreams I had, and encouraged me to write. We smoked, stroked each other and when we were high enough, she would take my cock into her mouth and drive me crazy with her hot breath, agile tongue and fingers, all the time stoking herself up with her fingers, climbing on top of me, dictating the pace. It was the only way we ever did it. It was the aftermath I loved most, lying with her in my arms, sharing a joint in the light of the dying candles, watching the curls of smoke casting shadows on the wall. She was the first person I'd ever felt truly close to, and I didn't want to let the feeling go. We went to the pub often, either to share a plate of chips or, when my allowance came through, we'd drink cocktails until our teeth numbed. The barman Cynthia fancied was on holidays. Then he was on afternoons. Or study leave. There was always some reason why he wasn't there, and I found myself getting as obsessed as Cynthia was, desperate to catch a glimpse of this mythical, gorgeous creature. And then one night there he was, curly dark hair pulled back into a ponytail, a hint of stubble. Tight white t-shirt clinging to his chest, broad shoulders, perfect arms. When Cynthia went up to him to order our drinks, he chatted with her for a bit and I felt warmth creeping into my heart at the sight of his smile. I lit up a smoke and waited for her to bring the drinks, flicking my cigarette against the metal ashtray, listening to the hum of conversation and wondering if I should put something on the jukebox. Not looking at him at all, not in the reflection of the Guinness mirror nor in the shine of the wooden paneling, not in the mirror behind the bar where his fuzzy hair shone under the light like a halo. We were well on the road to getting drunk when he came over to clear our glasses away and take our last orders. "Margeritas," I slurred. "I fancy something salty." Cynthia was leaning on my shoulder, grinning at the barman, her eyes half shut and unfocussed. "Yeah," she said, handing her glass to him. "Something salty, please." As he took the glass from her, his finger brushed over hers, so slightly. He caught my eye and winked, and the corners of my mouth floated up, just like Cynthia's were doing, as if there were invisible helium balloons tied to them. My thumping heart was warmed by the alcohol flooding around my body. She looked so cute with that goofy grin on her face. "I love you," I said, taking her hands in mine, and kissed her fingertips. Her nails were painted black and bitten to the quick. "I know," she said, smiling back, stroking her finger down the side of my face. "But." "But?" "You're gay." "I know. But I love you." "I love you too." I sat back and lit a cigarette, passing her the packet. "But," I said again. I tried to imagine my life without her, and couldn't. "I don't want to stop seeing you." "I don't want to stop seeing you either." She kissed me on the cheek, then her eyes drifted over towards the bar. "But." He came over with the margeritas. "There you go," he said. "First ones I've ever made." His eyes were fixed on Cynthia's face, hers on his. She took the straw between her teeth, still grinning. "That's ok," she said. Her voice had softened to a tone I'd never heard before. "It's lovely." He held out a hand, and after a slight pause, she took it in hers. "I'm Mark," he said. "Nice to meet you." That was the moment I knew Cynthia and I couldn't be together any more. I sipped at the drink, barely tasting it. I was almost sick with sudden, powerful jealousy, and not because this stunning man was putting the moves on my girlfriend. I saw how he was looking at her, and wished it was me he was looking at instead. = = = = = I expected Cynthia to move out pretty quickly, but she didn't. Mark didn't seem to mind that she was still sharing a bed with me, even though we weren't having sex any more. They were rarely on their own, except when the bra was hanging from the door handle and I knew not to go in. The few times I made an effort to go out on my own, they would protest and pull me back onto the bed. "We love you," Cynthia said, sucking at the huge joint she'd rolled, holding it in then sighing the smoke over me. I closed my eyes, inhaling the scent of the weed, the aroma of the joss stick Mark had lit, trying to mask the underlying smell of their recent lovemaking. Mark was often tired after his shifts at the bar, and fell asleep quickly after he'd eaten and smoked a bit with us. Cynthia and I would finish off the weed, and watch the rise and fall of his chest as he slept. We were both crazy in love with him, and she knew that as well as I did, from that night in the bar when we'd first met him. Slowly, I walled my love for him into a distant corner of my heart, and hoped that as the years passed, I would forget it was there. The following year, I wrenched myself away from them and moved in with Tim, who I'd met at the bar. Through him, I met his girlfriend Aisling, and her best friend Lauren. But Cynthia and Mark wouldn't leave me alone, and the five of us became friends. Mark and I were almost never alone, and it suited me just fine. He treated me just as Cynthia did, a best friend but with the same lack of physical boundaries Cynthia had. She'd snuggle up beside me and slip her hand under my t-shirt, spreading her hand against my heart and asking me when I was going to find a gorgeous barman of my own. I could handle it from her, but not from him. Sometimes he would fall asleep with his head in my lap, and I'd listen to the pendulum of the clock and try to study, all the time aware of the ache in my cock and willing it away with all sorts of horrific images. They got married the autumn after our graduation. I was Mark's best man, and responsible for his stag night. I knew he wouldn't like stuff like strippers and lap dancing, so I organized a meal and drinks for him, with all his closest and oldest friends. Watching him there, animated and happy, I felt my stomach tighten and I drank so much that in the end, Mark had to take me home. He was laughing as he practically carried me into my flat. "Supposed to do this with my bride, not you, you heavy bastard." I snuggled my nose into his neck as my floppy limbs refused to obey my commands. He smelt of cloves, the smell of the Indonesian cigarettes he sometimes smoked. "My hero," I said, grinning stupidly, eyelids too heavy to open. His hands were firm and soft as he peeled off my clothes, leaving me on the bed in my boxers, giggling and mumbling nonsense. He sat beside me while I drifted into the nicest dream I'd had in a long time. I felt his fingers on my forehead, brushing at my hair. The mattress shifted and I felt the covers thrown back and strong arms wrapping around me as a warm, hard body spooned me from behind. Then I was in a field somewhere in the sun and the images faded into the depths of my brain. There was a glint of sunlight through the window. The faintest kiss on my forehead, the click of a door shutting. I woke up on my back, sprawled over the whole mattress, my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth and a madman beating a tattoo inside my eyelids. Their wedding day was a rainy day in September, and the collar of my shirt was too tight. I felt dizzy listening to them exchanging their vows, and I drank so much that night that I didn't get out of bed for three days after. Two years later, their daughter Lily was born. They asked me to be her godfather, which I was delighted to do. And again, when Stephen came along. I adored all of them, and I was so pleased with myself for being the perfect friend, ignoring the fact that I lived like a monk, having no relationships and occasional hook ups that I never spoke about in front of Mark. I didn't even know why I did that. It just bothered me to talk about my love life in front of him, and he never raised the issue, although Cynthia was always fussing and trying to hook me up with every bloke she knew. I knew she wanted me to be as happy as she was, and I loved her all the more for it. Triangles "Sorry," he continued, "I've been a complete fucking prick, an insecure, egocentric arsehole. And I wondered, if you and me could... maybe try again.?" I sat down suddenly. My eyes fell on the modern art calendar on the wall. Underneath the coloured squares a kid could have done, the next day was circled in red, the day Mark and Cynthia were coming home. I looked at James. "Why?" He fiddled with his tie, rolling it up and down, his expression nonchalant. "Well," he said. "Living with Daniel wasn't the treat I thought it would be, but it made me realise something rather stupendous, as a matter of fact." I looked at him expectantly. "Something like, I don't know, I love you?" My jaw dropped open. He looked at me. "Do you have any idea what it's like to be with a guy who's obviously in love with someone else? Then Daniel started following me around like a lovesick puppy and I guess I got carried away with being the centre of attention, for once." My head whirled. "James," I said. "I'll have to think about it. This is all very... sudden." I clutched the roses and a thorn stuck into my thumb and I sucked on it, tasting the blood. He glanced at the calendar then went over for a closer look. Then he looked at his feet. "He's coming back, is he. I'd heard something like that. Well. That changes things a bit." He buttoned his jacket and went to the door. "I'll be off then." I watched the door close behind him and thought, for the first time, that James had a point. I thought I'd kept my feelings for Mark well concealed but maybe James knew me better than I'd given him credit for. I sucked at my thumb and thought about him, and if we could ever be together again after all that had happened. = = = = = When Mark and I said goodbye, it wasn't the tear-jerking experience I'd thought it would be. He packed his things and I watched, sorrow sitting on my chest like a lump of rock. All the time had run out. When he was ready, he hugged me so tight I thought my ribs were going to snap. "I won't say it," he said. "Just imagine we'll see each other soon." "See you soon, then." I closed my eyes and breathed in the scent of his skin, one last time. "Things are how they are," he said. "There's nowhere we can go from here. I love my family, Chris." There were tears in his eyes. I pushed him away. "You go first," I said. "I don't want to lose it in the car park." He kissed me on the forehead and held my face in his hands. "I'll never forget you," he said, then he let me go and turned around. When the door closed behind him, I sat on the bed and clutched the pillow to my chest. He was so near, but he may as well have been in Australia already. I knew there would never be more than what we'd had, and it had been a generous gift from a woman I'd rather die than hurt. I felt the strangest feeling, realising that the man I loved most in the world was the one man I didn't want to have because the price was too high. I didn't cry. I packed my things and went back to James and tried to put it all behind me. = = = = = It all ended where it began, in the bar where Mark had once worked. It had gone through a few name changes and the décor was grungy and dirty, the walls a shade of dark blue and plastered with posters advertising cheap shots and jugs of cocktail. I met Cynthia there a few days after they'd come back. The two year absence of communication was swallowed up in her hugs and kisses and we sat down, grinning at each other. "How about a Pair of Big Jugs?" she said, reading through the cocktail menu and laughing.. "You know me," I said, "big jugs aren't my thing but I'll certainly give them a go." The barman brought them over. He was short and shaven headed with an unattractive moustache creeping over his upper lip. When he was back behind the bar, Cynthia poured a drink and said, "Barmen here aren't what they were in our day." "They certainly aren't. Where is he?" "Dropping the kids off at my mum's." She fiddled with her hair. "I wanted to see you before he gets here. Just to say, like, there's nothing weird going on. Not for me, anyway." She told me all about their time in Australia, how the kids were getting on, how her job had been good at first but how homesick they'd become in the end, and when a position opened back home, they jumped at the chance. I told her about James and how things were and by the time Mark arrived, we were both drunk and giggling. He gave me a shy smile when he sat down beside me and then a big bear hug. "God it's good to see you," he said. Then he punched me on the arm. "Why didn't you answer our emails?" Cynthia looked at him and winked. "I'm going to the little girl's room," she said, and patted me on the back. I watched her go, my mouth suddenly dry. Mark was fiddling with the beer mat. His skin was tanned and he'd had a haircut since the photo they'd sent. It was short and curly and lightened by the sun. He hadn't shaved for a couple of days. "You look good," I said. "Tan suits you. So." "So?" "Well, with Cyn's noticeably tactful retreat to the toilet, I wondered if you had something you wanted to say." He laughed. "It's a funny situation, this. Us. You and Cyn sort of came as a package. She loves you, you know that. And I do too. But." "But." "Do you think we can be friends again?" His eyes were intense. I looked at him and felt the familiar ache in my heart, but it was bearable. "Friends," I said, and we clinked our glasses together. Then Cynthia came back and we toasted again, to all we ever could be. = = = = = That night, I stumbled over my doorstep and crashed onto the floor, laughing to myself. The empty living room looked even bigger from my vantage point of the carpet, and I pulled out my mobile phone and called James. "You're drunk," he sniffed. It sounded as if I'd got him out of bed. "Shut up," I said. "Do you want to come home?"