"Don’t you know what happens in pubs?": a short story by Daniela Dragas
It is what he does from time to time; asks her out for a drink or a meal, depending on how much money he can spare.
He rarely lets her pay, and only if she insists and he judges that she can afford it.
She was late and reproached herself for it; the place was only a few minutes from her flat, while he probably had to walk all the way from his downtown office. She really should have been more organised. The whole day she was aware of that engagement. It was almost four in the afternoon.
She tried to remember what she was doing all day; it took an awfully long time to peel herself off the bed, the wind rattled the front door all night, she hardly slept. The sweating was terrible too.
It must be the withdrawals.
The doctor said something about it the last time she saw him, which was not too long ago, but she could not remember what. What she did remember was the doctor standing very close to her, gently stroking her arm, brushing his hands over her breasts. Which, she briefly thought, are still somewhat firm and responsive.
Only later it occurred to her that she should have said something. Like - what do you think you are doing, or something like that. In a firm, matter-of-fact voice. Like those American women would. Easy for them, their mothers probably taught them how to. Her mother taught her how to be grateful; “When a man wants you, make sure you are ready. They have plenty to choose from, and you are too tall to be pretty and too brainy to be charming. Not many would go for you.”
Then there was the business of washing and dressing. It took even longer. She felt big and ugly and lazy. Every move was like wading through thick undergrowth. Paddling through a swamp. In the end, she threw a well-worn dress over herself and added shoes she once thought boring. It does not matter, she thought; he is just a friend.
The place was empty but for a few middle-aged men betting on horses under the giant TV screen.
She spotted him immediately, caressing a pint of a pale-yellow beer at one of the tables close to the veranda. Good, she thought. Easy to slip outside for a cigarette.
He had a fresh haircut and a new-looking shirt.
His greeting was of a familiar, carefully rationed warmth. She once asked him about it. He explained that he must be careful not to encourage her feelings for him since he cannot possibly give her what she really needs and deserves, which he pronounced to be; “all-consuming passion befitting her Slavic nature.” He simply does not have it in him being a Kiwi bloke raised by a war-veteran father and a mother who kept a wooden spoon handy at all times and believed that the devil takes his pleasures from tempting young boys into mischief.
At times she thought of asking him what he meant by it all but was unsure how to. She was getting used to him saying odd things like that every now and then.
Lowering her body carefully onto the shiny seat of a chair, she managed to keep a smile on. Beads of sweat travelled down her spine, pooling inside indents carved into flesh by bra straps
He walked to the bar to bring their drinks and hot chips. She watched him eat the way he always does, embarrassed by his indulgence.
They talked. She started;
“How’s it going?”
“Yeah, not too bad. You?”
“Ok, I guess. Still on holiday.”
“Wow, that’s long.”
“Yeah, coming to an end, dreading going back.”
“Work is good; pays the rent.”
“I suppose.”
“You should do something for yourself.”
“Like what?”
“Here – it is your local that I am introducing you to.”
“So?”
“Look around; see those men over there where TV is?”
She laughed. It was high-pitched and too loud. She covered her mouth with a hand and wiped tears aside.
A bolt of pain ran down her back, landing between shoulder blades.
The tears were more from pain and sorrow than laughter, but it made no difference.
She heard him saying, “What are you laughing like that for? Don’t you know what happens in pubs? You look around, flirt a bit, they buy you a drink or two, have a chat, take them home and if you still like them in the morning – do it again.”
“Really? I think I rather stick to my hourly rate.”
“You still doing it then?”
“What? Whoring? Nah, just kidding. Too tired.”
“Other things?”
“Nicking, you mean? Nah, lost the touch. Too slow. The cops scared me last time.”
“Good. Stay scared. Don’t get into any more trouble.”
“What’s it to you?”
“Just saying.”
They left the pub, and he walked her into the nearby dairy where a loud, mechanical greeting announced their arrival to an Indian man standing behind the counter over-stocked with sweets.
He insisted on buying her a bar of chocolate before walking her home.
Next week's short story is "Eileen" by Jan Pryor
