The Stranger by Mark Ayre (books you need to read TXT) 📗

"Americano," she said, pointing at the menu. "Black, strong. No milk, no sugar. Thank you."

Rather than a bottle, Bobby ordered a glass of white wine, which indicated he would not try to persuade her to change her mind. As the waiter departed, Abbie apologised.

"I'm not here to push you into anything," said Bobby. "You're reserved, I get that. You think this is a bad idea."

Abbie didn't know what to say. It was nothing to do with him. But it was a bad idea. She couldn't explain why without seeming crazy.

"You're not married, are you?" Bobby asked.

Abbie shook her head. "No. Not married. Not in a relationship."

"But there is something?"

"Something. Lots of things. I'm damaged."

"Aren't we all?"

"Many, not all," Abbie said. "And few are as damaged as me."

"Want to talk about it?"

This would usually be a flat no. For some reason, the negative did not today come so easily. Abbie managed to shake her head, but in doing so convinced neither him nor her.

"It's difficult," she said. "I'm rusty at this date thing."

"I thought this wasn't a date?"

"That's a good point."

"If it were," mused Bobby, "I would have to confess to being as out of practice as you."

"Unsurprising. Working two jobs can't leave much time for socialising.”

"Oh, I don't know," said Bobby. "I get at least two hours a week where it's not work but play."

"I hope you're not wasting this week's allocation on me."

"Not wasting, no."

Abbie smiled. "Make that judgement at the date's end."

"I think I can call it now."

"And I think," said Abbie, "I've decided what I want to eat."

The waiter appeared at Bobby's shoulder to leave their drinks and take their orders. Two minutes later, he was gone, and Bobby was looking at his glass as though about to confess it was stolen.

"I shouldn't have had alcohol. Poor form, as you're not."

"No, no," said Abbie. "With so few hours earmarked for socialising, you must make the most of them. Kick back, have what you want."

With a nod, Bobby took his glass and sipped. Abbie watched him. Waited. As he replaced his glass on the table, she straightened, leaned in a little.

"If you don't mind me asking, why do you work so many hours? I assume it's necessity rather than desire?"

"You assume right," he said. After that, he clammed up for a while. Long enough for Abbie to lean back and raise a hand.

"You don't have to say. I didn't mean to pry."

"I never talk about it," he said.

"I know how that goes," said Abbie, thinking of her baby, of Violet, her brother.

Bobby took some more of his drink, then shook his head. This time, he leaned forward.

"You ever heard of that thing they used to do in the past?"

"Hmm," said Abbie. "You may have to be more specific. Way I understand it, there have been at least ten years of past within which people have done upwards of, like, thirty things."

"You're funny," said Bobby. "People ever tell you that?"

"I tell myself all the time. People tend to throw things at me."

"People are the worst."

"Aren't they?"

"Fine, more specific," said Bobby. "Doctors used to do this thing where they would cut open an ill person's arm, or leg, or whatever, and let them bleed because they thought the illness was in the blood, and it needed letting out. Like bleeding a radiator. You know what I mean?"

"I know metaphors are at their most effective when their deliverer fully understands the thing they are using as a point of comparison."

"How do you know I'm doing a metaphor?"

“True,” said Abbie, "it's probably a simile."

Sitting back, folding his arms, Bobby nodded. "Go on then."

"Okay," said Abbie. "Bloodletting is the practice, via leeches or via a physician with a sharp tool, of drawing blood from a body to prevent or cure an illness. It was one of the most frequently used medical practices for thousands of years, right up to the 19th century, when it fell out of fashion, although it was still used as late as the 20th century in some places."

"Impressive knowledge," said Bobby.

Abbie shrugged. "When you spend most of your time alone, unburdened by family or friendship, you read a lot. When I'm not travelling, I can read a book a day, as many non-fiction as fiction. My knowledge retention is good, so I know a lot of stuff. Most of it useless, some of it not."

This was all true. Abbie's permanent residence was a three-bedroom. The largest of these rooms she had converted into a library and stuffed with hundreds of books. When she was home, she read insatiably.

"I think that's the first real thing I've learned about you," said Bobby.

This was probably true. Abbie spent her life shrouded in lies, and it had been many years since someone knew anything real about her. To avoid dwelling on it, Abbie said, "Your metaphor, or perhaps simile, is that by opening up with each other about our darkest truths, we are letting them off, the same way those doctors from years gone by would let off the blood of their patients. Bloodletting didn’t often work. Bad memory letting, you'd argue, does."

"I'd certainly like to give it a try."

"A wise person," said Abbie, "once invented the saying, A problem shared is a problem halved, so people like you didn't have to labour over such difficult similes."

Leaning forward, Bobby said, "I think you were right."

"About what?"

"We shouldn't have come on this date."

Bobby's smile made it seem as though he didn't mean this. Then again, a man who could maintain a near-permanent smile while working almost every hour of the week would probably smile at his grandmother's funeral, even while drying the tears from his eyes.

His laugh indicated he was joking, and Abbie laughed too. Then the mood turned solemn.

"You really think me revealing my dark memories will make me feel better?" said Abbie

Bobby tilted his head this way and that, so-so. "I think if it's true we'll never see each other again, and you find