The Quiet Man

Boundary Issues

I don’t even know what program this is. It’s on E4. I haven’t been watching much telly lately; I don’t even know what’s popular anymore. There are people talking, fighting, driving around some city or other. Probably Cardiff, it always seems to be Cardiff in the end. Cardiff tarted up to look like parts of London. Maybe it’s Bristol. I don’t know. The actors don’t look familiar to me. I missed the beginning. It could be anything. Whatever it is, you’d have hated it.

You weren’t much of a fan of the telly, really. If Mrs Hudson hadn’t already furnished the place herself, I suspect you’d not have had one at all. And that would have been too bad, really. We had some fun watching crap telly. Didn’t we? The worse it was, the more fun we had. It seems that way, anyway. In retrospect. Maybe you’d disagree.

I can smell someone’s cooking: boiled cabbage and mash, probably. A roast. Families making meals for each other. I miss you especially when I smell other people’s cooking. I don’t know why that is. I guess it reminds me that I don’t have anyone to make meals for anymore.

How maudlin. Really, John.

I know, I know.

Oh. Someone just got killed. You would not have liked this crime scene. It’s not even a four. Fingerprints, footprints, and a wallet left by the body: far too easy for you. You would have begged me to switch the channel by now.

You should. This is terrible.

I inflicted so many terrible movies on you. You complained, but you never said no when I suggested another. You never walked out. You stayed, you sat on the sofa with me. You ate popcorn, you laughed. Usually at the wrong times, but you laughed. And I laughed at you as much as at the movies. I think you enjoyed those evenings with me. I like to think you did.

I remember Goldfinger; we were sitting on the couch together, you leaning forward, looking bewildered and appalled, your elbows on your knees. And your leg was pressed against mine. I remember that.

It was such a small thing. Almost unnoticeable. Unremarkable, if you didn’t know it wouldn’t happen again. One of the many things that’s so easy to take for granted.

It was a warm point that connected us. It made me feel secure, somehow. Secured. Like you held me in place, me as some sort of helium balloon in a storm. But that’s not how it was: I was the one holding on. You were always the one on the verge of flying away. You were the one made of coffee and unpredictability. You were the one with the magic. I’m the one with feet of clay. Still here. Still stuck on the ground. I must have let go, somehow.

“Popcorn?” Apparently popcorn warrants a raised eyebrow from you. You act as if I’d brought over a bowl of eels. As if you’ve never seen a bowl of popcorn before. Honestly. You look at it skeptically, but by the end of the film you’ll have eaten most of it yourself. Sweet things and salty things; you like them both, when you bother to eat. Sweet coffee and pastries, and salted butter and popcorn. You are a creature of extremes. You deny yourself physical pleasures with people because people are too distracting, but then you inject yourself with cocaine. You were always about to fly away, weren’t you? Every moment I had you.

“It’s traditional,” I say. I put the bowl on the coffee table and grab a handful. It’s hot. Popcorn is something you’ve deleted, apparently. Strange. I never know with you. Either you’ll know too much about something, or nothing at all. It’s completely in or out with you, always. Nothing halfway.

“I see.” You reach over and take a single bit. You inspect it, then put it in your mouth. I watch your jaw flex as you chew. You act like it’s some kind of popped abomination, but you like it, I can tell. I’ll laugh about it afterwards when I dump the remaining unpopped kernels into the bin while you’re fast asleep on the sofa. You are open to experimentation, that’s certain. Everything is worth trying, at least once. If you like it, you don’t hold back. Off or on. No in between.