The porter was dark, too dark, its promise of chocolate a sharp cocoa that twisted my face and made you laugh.
You were saying something about a friend of a friend, a series of name-drops, emphatically done, attempting to spark some recognition in me but being met with confusion because I don’t live in your world of money and bulging contact books. Now you’re saying something about marriage pacts and business deals but where you see prosperity, I see lack of sovereignty.
You laugh without the companionship of my laughter but are happy. A waiter walks by and you hail him, boss, and get your plate of chicken while ordering for me vegetarian nachos I didn’t ask for; I’d have liked the potato wedges, please. Sometimes I think you’re a mind reader, because a plate of wedges indeed makes its way to my side of the table. The nachos are nowhere to be seen.
The name-dropping continues, until clear images I had of the people blur into another, one after the other. I didn’t know most names, yet every one of them was uttered nonchalantly as though there was no way I could possibly not know these people.
For every name dropped, ‘best friend’ is a subtext, until you stopped saying it because it was implied. Friends all over the world- a few in English cities, who’ll host you when you fly in for a game, a few in our city, that you’re going to meet the next evening as you so gleefully confirmed on the phone. Everyone is your best friend.
I listen to the colour of your voice, how it weaves, undulating, stories of a world I don’t inhabit. I’ve travelled more and read more and studied more and lived more than you, but beside you I sometimes feel small.
You stand at full length, all of six feet two, broad shoulders made even broader by the posture, but I don’t feel anything except a disconnect, a growing gap, a mild confusion.
We are too much of you.
Featured illustration: Au Revoir (1920) by George Barbier
Happy new year, everyone! It took me two weeks to get back to Substack, and even so, with a piece from the archives rather than a fresh one. But that’s how the start of the year—the scurf of December past—is for me. There are changes underway, and baby steps towards righting my course after ignoring the compass for one month too many. All in due time — until then, we carry on.
love this gorgeous little essay -- it feels like a glance into a room i wasn't supposed to enter. can so relate with these feelings!