The Grey and the Grit

‘What happened to chess? There’s a club in town, you said.’
‘On a Monday night. It’s difficult to get to. Monday night is probably my busiest.’
‘You just need something else,’ she said, putting all her weight into else.
Arrangements had fallen on their face last go-round, the tail-end of summer, directions of travel all over the place, transatlantic flights & engineering works, but on the first Saturday of November we were available and keen. I met R—— at the train station, perfectly timed, embracing awkwardly as he shared his complaints about public transport. A fine rain fell on us out the foyer, across the crossing, beneath the bridge and into the warm pub arches. I had not seen him for five years, not properly, except for a chance meeting outside Tottenham Court Rd. tube station. It was that length of time – at once forever and covid’s nothing at all – that made me slightly nervous and unsure of how I was coming across until I had sunk a beer. There was no question that I had gained some weight and my skin had, for some reason, got worse, that the optimism a delightful & promising romance afforded me at the beginning of 2020 had vanished entirely, taking a part of me with it, but there must be some positives, some signs of character development, of growth, that in many perhaps inconspicuous or subtle ways I had improved as a human being. I thought that I would calm down eventually and was terribly conscious of myself as he told me of his drinking, the end of a relationship, an air fryer, sleep patterns.
There were two men like vikings next to us, a young woman with them who often broke outside for a smoke, and a bored child running around yapping and slapping the fruit machine for some small portion of entertainment. Once they left, S—— arrived, beaming at our reunion.

The three of us were whittled down from seven at university over the last two decades; there was no drama to it, like an old WWII battalion or the class of ’69, just old friends who turned away one by one and were then spoken of fondly, followed by an empty—‘We must see how he’s doing, invite him along next time.’ Only one on the outskirts of Rome did we raise our glasses to; he remained in touch, absentee. I even felt guilty not inviting him, as if he might take a flight, a real European, a holy expat, bilingual,quello che è riuscito a scappare.
There were many thirty-somethings in there, dressed spectacularly in bowties and silk dresses, jazz-age or something from around then, I do not know. Not fancy dress, they were elegant. The group grew & grew, becoming louder, more beautiful and colourful, greeting each other with smiles, all very happy, offers of drinks, ‘No, it’s okay, I’ll get it’, bare shoulders, popped cuffs, shimmering silk, sparkling jewellery.
We stopped off at a Co-op’ outside the train station: pale ale, cider, vodka, diet coke, sweets, crisps, pork scratchings. It was cold out on the way back, dark but not late, it was autumnal. The air smelled of summer burning. R—— asked why was I not cold. Behind fake-flowers and vertical blinds, a mother was doing her son’s hair in the middle of the living room, television light all blue and flickering. When I opened my front door, the cat greeted us and leaned back from the strangers. They came in. It was warm, but only slightly, for I had left the windows ajar and a cool mist had penetrated the rooms. I turned the heating on, the cat leapt over the furniture to keep an eye on everything as the fridge was loaded. When they grew tired of my Motown records, I put on MF DOOM, making sure they had drinks and snacks, that they were content. It was important they were comfortable and that I was comfortable, that the temperature in the room was just right and the lights were low. Everything was golden beside the lamps I have placed about my living room.
It was important to me that it be quite like old times.

We used to do this at R——’s, his ground floor flat in Limehouse, and me living just a couple miles down the A13, walking quickly with a sack full of beers & red wine, crisps to soak it up, maybe a large bar of chocolate for after the curry. Along the way were the wonders of East London, everything I loved about it, the grey and the grit. Back then I was an anxious stew, and to trek that road after I had been shut in my flat all day was a real impact upon the senses, upon my anxiety, so that just making it there became something of an accomplishment. I would roll cigarettes for the journey. It seemed as though the market was always just being disassembled, the clanking of metal, the stiff ruffling of tarps, roads swept, the pubs still quiet, there were many cars & buses & ubers & cabs & cycles; it seemed as if everyone was getting into position. I got to his with an almighty sigh and often perspiring in spite of the cold. We began to drink. Maybe the sun was setting but that last time it was dark already and two of us had a game of chess as S—— chose the music. The whole place choked up in smoke, low-end frequencies from the speaker, drinking and eating, cleaning up, bottle after bottle of wine until it was late and then it was early in the cab home.
We walked R—— to the station for the last train back. S—— invited himself to stay at mine for the evening, which I did not mind so much but was sure that I needed some sleep and that my Sunday was to be nothing but doing nothing. He put a horror film on, and an old friend messaged me: she was on holiday with her mother and her partner would not see the messages but she wished to speak to me, find out how I was. It had been four months. I was tired when I realised that the whole summer had flown by and how, during the silence of our messages, it seemed like no time at all.

He did not stir on the sofa when I went in to feed the cat her breakfast at nine o’clock but by eleven, after I had showered, he was in his underwear setting the sofa right, still stuffy with sleep. I checked his order—‘Flat white?’—put my trainers on and went out into the drizzle.
It was mild. Midday in the retail park was busy. Lots of young couples and young families, but no wind in the trees, no November chill in the air, a constant shuttling of cars back & forth, boots opened & closed, swollen shopping bags. The coffeeshop was hot with steam. I bought myself a cappuccino, her a flat white, and an almond croissant for both of us. We could eat them in bed. It was my pleasure to get out early on a Sunday morning, as she readied herself, buy us a coffee and almond croissant each. By the time I got back she would have put a load of washing on, or used the bathroom, maybe she would have had a twenty-minute snooze. I walked back with two coffees and a bulging paper bag of fresh almond croissants, still warm. Everyone who saw me knew that I was returning to my partner, two coffees, two pastries, they probably even knew that it was tradition, just like how we were raised to go to church on a Sunday morning. I got in the lift and a cleaner followed me in, spied my cargo and asked—‘Wish my husband would do the same for me!’ I smiled politely and rolled my eyes, chuckled, told the cleaner that my partner had had a tough week at work, her colleague was ill with that thing going round, so her workload had doubled; it was the least I could do. ‘She’s a lucky woman,’ said the cleaner and got off at the floor below mine.
S—— was now out of the shower, pulling a comb through his hair and walking in circles around my living room, grunting at every knot. He said thank you. We sat down and watched the television. A terrible sadness had overcome me so that I could not make conversation. Who could tolerate such company? After a couple of hours, he left. When I could not nap through the afternoon, I just lay on my back and declined all incoming calls.

Tuesday Evening