TM177 Smile
Between Parting of the Ways and the Christmas Invasion
There are other things he doesn't remember. The way she could be really stroppy sometimes. The way she'd say, "no, fine" and mean the exact opposite, and then be all huffy anyway when he gave in and did what she wanted. No matter what they tell you, no relationship is perfect, or perfectly happy all the time. But he doesn't remember them, just her smile, her laugh, her strength and compassion and the way her head went back, eyes half glazed, biting at her lower lip when his tongue, fingers, cock went right there. He remembers that she left. He always remembers that.
He doesn't remember this:
After a particular awkward saturday footy game -- Tricia Delaney's brother had shown up and things got a little too rough on the pitch -- he goes down the pub by himself with a week's wages burning a hole in his pocket. It's not the usual place, he doesn't want to run into anyone he knows and have to talk, but it's usual enough and he can grab an out-of-the-way spot at the bar and rack them up until the bartender calls time or cuts him off, whichever comes first.
And the first goes down easy, the second two, and the third, and he's lost count by the time he drops a handful of change on counter and the bartender goes "you're ten-p short, mate."
"Aww, c'mon," Mickey whines, hating how it sounds but not able to stop himself, and tries for "give us another" but gets more like "gi's's anudder."
"I think you've had enough," the bartender says, genially enough, pushing the change back.
Mickey pulls himself up to his full height, grabbing the bar when the pub sways around him, and with as much dignity and clarity as he can muster insists, "I am drunk. Not. Not drunk. Is what I am, see?"
"Quite right," says an amused, cultured voice right behind him, and Mickey almost falls over trying to see who is speaking.
An arm reaches past him to flick a fifty onto the bar. Mickey's eyes are drawn to the ring, the swirl of a stylised s or an infinity loop, glittering in the bar lights like a regal seal. When he looks up, it's to meet surprisingly piercing eyes set in a jovial man-about-town face. He feels an odd rush of heat. Maybe he has had too much to drink after all.
"What's got you down, friend?" the man asks, pressing a glass into his hands. "Tell me all about it."
Mickey looks at the hands, touching his own, then at the glass -- then he drinks, and he guesses that loosened his tongue because the next thing he knows the two of them are huddled together and he's blurting, "my girlfriend left me! She left! Rushed off to him in that stupid box, and I just let her! I helped her, and now she's going to die, alone in, in, in that place! Bad wolf my ass."
"She'll come back," the man says. There's something in his voice, like a joke Mickey's missing. "Everything comes back in the end."
"You think?" Mickey blinks at him. "Hey, aren't you that guy -- in the paper..."
"Please," says Mister Saxon. "Call me Harold."
When he smiles, Mickey smiles too.
There are other things he doesn't remember. The way she could be really stroppy sometimes. The way she'd say, "no, fine" and mean the exact opposite, and then be all huffy anyway when he gave in and did what she wanted. No matter what they tell you, no relationship is perfect, or perfectly happy all the time. But he doesn't remember them, just her smile, her laugh, her strength and compassion and the way her head went back, eyes half glazed, biting at her lower lip when his tongue, fingers, cock went right there. He remembers that she left. He always remembers that.
He doesn't remember this:
After a particular awkward saturday footy game -- Tricia Delaney's brother had shown up and things got a little too rough on the pitch -- he goes down the pub by himself with a week's wages burning a hole in his pocket. It's not the usual place, he doesn't want to run into anyone he knows and have to talk, but it's usual enough and he can grab an out-of-the-way spot at the bar and rack them up until the bartender calls time or cuts him off, whichever comes first.
And the first goes down easy, the second two, and the third, and he's lost count by the time he drops a handful of change on counter and the bartender goes "you're ten-p short, mate."
"Aww, c'mon," Mickey whines, hating how it sounds but not able to stop himself, and tries for "give us another" but gets more like "gi's's anudder."
"I think you've had enough," the bartender says, genially enough, pushing the change back.
Mickey pulls himself up to his full height, grabbing the bar when the pub sways around him, and with as much dignity and clarity as he can muster insists, "I am drunk. Not. Not drunk. Is what I am, see?"
"Quite right," says an amused, cultured voice right behind him, and Mickey almost falls over trying to see who is speaking.
An arm reaches past him to flick a fifty onto the bar. Mickey's eyes are drawn to the ring, the swirl of a stylised s or an infinity loop, glittering in the bar lights like a regal seal. When he looks up, it's to meet surprisingly piercing eyes set in a jovial man-about-town face. He feels an odd rush of heat. Maybe he has had too much to drink after all.
"What's got you down, friend?" the man asks, pressing a glass into his hands. "Tell me all about it."
Mickey looks at the hands, touching his own, then at the glass -- then he drinks, and he guesses that loosened his tongue because the next thing he knows the two of them are huddled together and he's blurting, "my girlfriend left me! She left! Rushed off to him in that stupid box, and I just let her! I helped her, and now she's going to die, alone in, in, in that place! Bad wolf my ass."
"She'll come back," the man says. There's something in his voice, like a joke Mickey's missing. "Everything comes back in the end."
"You think?" Mickey blinks at him. "Hey, aren't you that guy -- in the paper..."
"Please," says Mister Saxon. "Call me Harold."
When he smiles, Mickey smiles too.