Open Water by Caleb Nelson (books to read in your 30s .TXT) 📗

an empty beer and Imogen is slurping at the dredges in her glass.

‘Let’s take refuge,’ she says.

Indoors, you and your oldest friend share a sofa. Imogen tucks herself close and it’s not unfamiliar. When you were at school, it would be she, waiting, patient, legs crossed, neck boughed over her phone display, when you emerged from basketball training in the evening. She would catch sight of you with her kind, attentive gaze and already be in motion.

‘Good session?’

Murmured, breathless answer, growing into something coherent, finding form. Walking towards the enormity of the fields. Covering the circumference with a slow, measured trudge, once, twice. Time losing shape, dragged back by your parents wondering where you are. Departing from one another, tucking her tiny frame into your chest; declining the lift, wanting to walk, to carve out something coherent, to find a form.

On the sofa, she studies you with the same attentive gaze.

‘What’s going on in there?’ she asks.

‘I don’t know if I should go meet my friend.’

‘Why?’

‘I just have a bad feeling.’

‘Then don’t go.’

‘But I want to see her. She’s only back from Dublin for a few days.’

‘Just go with your instincts.’

You’re not a prophet but you should trust yourself more often.

You leave Imogen, take the number 3 bus snaking down to Brixton, where you meet her and the poet. It’s like the fever had never broken, it’s like you have returned to that evening where you shared a table at dinner, the three of you. As before, when you’re departing, the poet who sees you and her, saw the ripple and the sinking stone, tells both of you to stay out of trouble.

From Brixton Nando’s to the Ritzy Cinema. To the bar. You order a whisky and she pulls a face. She, a sweet cider. There’s a balcony, where you sit at a wobbly table and drink quickly, lest they spill. You’re set back from the edge so it’s screaming you hear first, followed by the smashing of glass, accusations being thrown, an anger, a hysteria. Feelings are heightened in these moments. You peer over the balcony, joining in with the rest of Brixton to view too many policemen for one woman. A knee on the woman’s back. The small crowd on the balcony weigh in with their own heavy conclusions or, in one case, despair at their own hopelessness.

‘I just wish there was something I could do.’

A stranger consoles another stranger. ‘You can’t. People like that, people who have been in Brixton for years, they’re a lost cause.’

And you feel anger, a hysteria, feelings heightened in these moments, but your vision is clear, an unfrosted window, you see the woman with the policeman’s knee on her back not being seen.

‘Are you OK?’ she asks. You shake your head.

‘Finish your drink, let’s go.’

You walk through Brixton, passing a Caribbean fete. Eyes follow her loose languid figure. When she gets into stride and a smile cracks open her features, you wonder if what people see matches what is. You suspect it does. You had that drink too quickly, you realize, but you don’t think as you both walk into a Sainsbury’s, and buy a bottle to split, both drinking too quickly, both drunk too quickly. Spillages. Spillages on the bus. Spillages on the path to her flat, where you both pause to question each other, but gloss over. It’s easier this way, for now.

‘I heard you bumped into Samuel.’

You hesitate. ‘Who did you hear that from?’

‘Samuel. I saw him yesterday, both got off at the same station.’

‘Oh.’

‘He asked me if anything was going on with us. I couldn’t give him a straight answer.’

Neither could you. You had met Samuel in a similar fashion the week before, alighting from a train at Elephant and Castle, meeting on a platform. It was the first time in several months you had seen each other, and he was short, sharp, curt with you, before getting to the point.

‘Are you and her together yet, then?’

‘Who?’

‘Don’t treat me like an idiot,’ Samuel said.

‘We’re not together.’

‘But you want to be?’

‘Where is this coming from?’

‘I said, don’t treat me like an idiot. I saw the way you looked at her when you first met. I saw the same look when I came over to hers that time, in December. I heard how you spoke about each other. It’s whatever, bruv. You’ll probably end up getting married. You’re both adults, but shit, be honest about it. I’m tired of people lying to me. It’s bad enough having to watch two people you care about fall for each other. But to not say anything? That’s rubbish. So tell me what the deal is?’

‘Honestly,’ you said. ‘I don’t know.’

Except you did know. To give desire a voice is to give it a body through which to breathe and live. It is to admit and submit to something which is on the outer limits of your understanding. To have admitted it to Samuel would have unfurled the folds of longing which he witnessed the beginning of. To have admitted it to Samuel would have been asking him to renounce you of your guilt. It would have let the resistance fall away and given you the freedom to act. It was easier for you to remain silent and hold the desire to yourself. Samuel waited expectantly, waited for more, and when it wouldn’t come, walked away from you.

As you walk the path to her flat, wobbly, drunk, you ask, ‘Are you mad I didn’t say anything?’

She shakes her head. ‘Not really.’

‘So you are.’

She smiles. ‘When he told me, it felt weird. Felt like you were just looking out for yourself. I know it was just a chance meeting, but still.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Just tell me next time,’ she says, winding an arm around your waist. ‘Man, I’ve missed you.’

‘Me too,’ you say. ‘Me too.’

Inside, you’re sitting across the room. You’re both talking to a young man lodging in her flat, aware that the third addition warps the dynamic. She nudges you with her eyes, and gestures at the