Maekitso’s Cafe recently received a short story by a budding Sydney writer who chooses to go by the name of Anya. I hope you enjoy Anya’s guest post. Please feel free to offer your comments and opinions.
Be warned that this story contains some strong language.
“I like strong women,” said the voice. He was a young man, barely 23. He leant up against the wall, and she wasn’t sure if he was trying to hide his nervousness, or maybe he really did like strong women.
“I believe in anarchy,” he said quickly as if trying to prove a point. She didn’t look up. He was full of energy and there was a rippling about his energy, a crackling. It was almost as if he was daring her to look at him. If she kept looking at the coaster that she was slowly ripping up in her hand then maybe he would think her dismissive and uninterested. And that would give her the upper hand.
She stared at him from under her fringe. He was very young and earnest. Nice enough if you didn’t get too close. Her edginess and nerves jangled.
“How strong do you like them?” she jested in return, suggesting that his taste in women was like coffee. She thought herself that she was like a café latte, all froth and milk really. But somewhere in there she knew she had a backbone of espresso. That much had only become apparent in the last few months.
She leant back in the chair assuming what she hoped looked like a strong and aggressively confident position. She didn’t feel it. She hadn’t been out in town since last year sometime with workmates and not since the breakup of her marriage. She couldn’t believe she was sitting in a pub in inner Sydney ordering a second beer when she really should be going home.
‘What would I be going home for?’ growled the evil side of her. True enough. Cold kitchen with no lights on. A cat clamouring for food, and the TV for company. She didn’t actually have to be anywhere; it just felt like she had.
The boy had taken her remark as a challenge.
“Strong enough,” he replied nonchalantly and looked away as if someone far more interesting was moving across the room.
She wanted to scoff. This was behaviour reserved for uni students trying to pick each other up, she thought to herself as she laughed inwardly. ‘I’m way too old for this’ she thought. The coaster was in small pieces on the table and she’d run out of things to do. In a fit of nerves she thought she should take out her phone. Maybe someone had called. She could check the time. Anything. Just not look up.
“Anarchists believe in the balance of all things, treat everything with equal respect – like plants, animals, nature… women. Everything.” The boy spoke with a fluid ease. He didn’t so much lean into the wall as wear it.
“I thought punks had a kind of costume,” she said, keeping a note of jest in her voice. She knew he’d captured her attention, but she didn’t want him to know that. Not yet.
“Mohawks you mean? I had one when I was younger,” said the boy.
Younger? She thought. Christ. I’m old.
“Yeah, I had one and it was red and green. Red for communism. Green for environmentalism.”
She had learnt something. The colours of a Mohawk have meaning, and that this boy knew about communism which had probably gone the way of the dodo before he was born. She leant across the table. He was cute. Sweet even. Kind of like a younger brother, but with an edge to him. She found herself listening to him in spite of herself.
“It’s a statement of what I believe. I stood up for what I believe, and to get in amongst it when I needed to. So many people don’t have any values. There’s nothing they believe in. It’s all shit. Consumerism. Buy the biggest car. What’s my pay packet? When am I off overseas for a holiday? Shopping in fucking Westfield every fucking day.”
Well, he had a point. She couldn’t stand mall shopping. It made her feel ill.
“But anarchy,” she started, cautious about revealing her ignorance, “isn’t that all about violence? Lawlessness?”
Genuinely interested now she leant further forward and wished she had another coaster to rip apart. Her drink was empty. It had been her second and she wondered if she could have another. She knew she was borderline drunk and that if she had another she might fall over, or she could have the best night of her life. She wondered if he’d buy her a drink. Probably not. He probably didn’t even have a job yet, not a full time one. Maybe she should buy him one? Wouldn’t that be like his mother buying him a drink?
“Easy to think it. But it’s not true. Ever seen a hippy?” his eyes blazed directly at her for the first time. “They say they want the same things we do. Peace. No society. Freedom from rules and government. But they do it the wrong way. They suck out from us, and hang on to their drugs and ruin what we’re trying to do.
“It all fucking sucks. The American government goes to war and takes us with them like their fucking sidekick. We’d be better off without it. Hippies believe the same thing, but they’re fucked up. They take drugs and sit around and screw the rest of us over.”
He wasn’t making any sense, and yet making perfect sense at the same time. She wanted to run her hand over his forehead and soothe him. But he was full of a bouncing restless power which threatened and attracted her.
The boy glanced over at her. He kicked his heel back against the wall, and she found herself glancing at his boot. That’s right. Skinheads and punks wore boots and studs and stuff. They listened to stomping kind of music and pierced their noses didn’t they? This boy looked scrubbed clean, no piercings.
He leant forward towards the table with his hands in his pockets.
“I know why you’re here,” he leered conspiratorially.
Her heart started. Could he see it? Could he tell? Oh Christ. Maybe she was completely transparent. But hang on, she almost didn’t know why she was here herself. But if he could see it what would that mean for her? Maybe he could see what she was after and she hadn’t even found the words for it yet.
“Why is that?” she asked nonchalantly, swallowing her heart down her throat as she looked into the part of his eye which reflected the light from the bar. She ran her fingers through her hair. She could smell him. He had on a cheapish aftershave which thrilled her slightly, and underneath that was a scent of warm sweat and his maleness. He sat down and leaned in close. She leant back imperceptibly and unconsciously put her hand on her handbag. Why she did that she wasn’t sure, it’s not like he looked like he was going to steal it. He glanced at her hand on her bag, and his eyes flicked back to hers. In the millionth of a second she realized that he’d seen her judge him, and she wanted to take it back whatever it was.
“You are after it. You know you are,” he whispered.
‘Sex’, said the voice in her head, ‘he means sex’.
Her head snapped up. “What?” she practically shouted. “What do you think I’m after?”
She wanted the right sound of indignation in her voice, to sound horrified. She wanted this boy to know that she didn’t want sex. Of course she didn’t. He didn’t know anything about her. She’d just come out of a relationship for Christ’s sake, and this was the last thing she needed. She wasn’t interested, and that was that. No, not interested.
He leant back and smirked.
She was confident in her position now. No, she wasn’t here for sex! How outrageous. How dare he mention it? She tried blazing her eyes at the boy, but her heart thumped when their eyes met. She flicked her chin up and took out her phone from her bag.
“What?” she demanded again, as she furiously flicked through the buttons.
The boy stared around the room, and without looking at her started to speak.
“Oh you know you do,” he said quietly. “I can smell it on you. You’re waiting for me to make the first move.”
She sat quietly, pushing the buttons on her mobile phone screen just out of view so the light of the screen lit up her chin. She didn’t have to let him know she was scrolling through the past text messages from her ex-boyfriend, where he was declaring his love for her and calling her “his chick”. Probably sent whilst he was fucking that girl from his work. She slammed her phone shut, angry at the memory and angrier at this impudence.
“Get stuffed,” she hissed.
The boy looked amused, raising his eyebrows. “Come on,” he said leaning forward. “Follow me.”
With that he got up, and walked out of the bar, his half empty glass still sloshing on the table.
She was relieved. Now she could relax. He thought she was going to follow him, but she wouldn’t. She’d just sit here and have another drink, maybe order some chips. The light on her phone glowed the time – 7.12pm. She wasn’t even hungry. The beer had given her that false filled feeling. Her hands shook, and she grabbed her bag again. Without thinking she rummaged for her makeup case and unzipped it, filling in time. She took out her mirror and lipstick, flicked open the compact and noticed her hands were still trembling slightly. Frowning she traced her lip line, trying to look elegant, dismissive, powerful. She smudged the bottom corner, and swore under her breath.
Flinging the makeup case and phone into her bag, she reached over the boy’s half filled glass and knocked it back in one gulp. She strode towards the door.
…..
He was leaning against the wall of the pub smoking with his hand cupped around his cigarette like a workman, outside the pool of light which dribbled from the open door of the pub. The roar of the pub noise stopped with a muffle at the exit, and as she walked out into the fresh Sydney air she felt that feeling she always got when she left a pub. No one would miss her going. The party was always elsewhere.
A deep breath and she saw him at once, and immediately pretended she hadn’t. Heart thumping she needed to walk past him to the cab rank. Head held high, she thought to herself; walk like you’re going somewhere important.
Striding in her high heels she struck the walk that communicated “don’t mess with me”, but at the same time “unapproachable, and you couldn’t afford it anyway”. High heels thacking reassuringly on the pavement she went to move past him.
“Hey,” he said, with a half glittering cold smile, flicking his butt onto the gutter. Interrupting her walk directly with nothing more than a breath and a sound.
