Daniel Morton sits in front of his small desk which is fitted into a corner of his room. His long black hair rests either side of his wide, soft shoulders. From the age of fifteen Daniels figure has grown taller and wider at such a rate that, in his eyes, he's as big now (aged twenty-one) as he was at seventeen. To his old school friends and acquaintances though the change has been startling. Indeed, when they receive an involuntary image of Daniel in the supermarket it pulls up shock and delight in equal measure, as a car crash creates photographs on the high street. Daniel can sense the unspoken words in the downward glance of the eyes, over-active mannerisms and, even with the closest friends of the past, futile conversation topics. Because of this he doesn't leave the house if he doesn't have to and those times that he has brought on sweats to add to the heavily stocked physique. Once, for instance, when, after searching the cold foods isle of ASDA for sandwiches, he realised that the cashier was an old school face, his hands got so wet that he had to leave shop for fear of ruining a tenner. It can well be understood, therefore, why Daniel spends all of his time in his room.
Inside his room, Daniel spends a lot of man hours at his desk. He used to spend all of his time on computer games but now social networks have entered his life. This happened a few days ago when he realised that when people update a Facebook status or tweet something, it sometimes shows where they are. A little research labelled this the Location Service. 'Here,' thought Daniel on it's discovery, 'is my route back into the world.' Soon enough he was plotting out all of the faces from his past onto maps. Those that still live in Fleetwood have the biggest map (situated just above the desk), those that have moved to another town or city have their own map (a map of England to the left of the Fleetwood map), and those that have gone abroad sit on a world map (to the right of the Fleetwood map). In this way Daniel spent the first three days of the week. Yesterday (a Thursday in our story), however, something happened. Pushing his way down Twitter feeds he went past a name from high school: Amy White. This bird was fucking fit! So, he checked her pictures. She still is. From what he can tell she's been away recently; Zante or Magaluf or Spain, somewhere like that. There she stands whenever he needs her, middle height, slim and tanned, dark eyed, bright lipped in a pale pink bikini. There's something nasty about the bottoms though. Clinging tight as if air-sealed to the shadows of un-seen and un-kown lumps poke out of the pictures. Sweat or water on the inner thigh reflects into the lens with a sin-stung smile of fun. Of 'experience.' She's fit though so what does he care? So, since Amy White entered his life again Daniel has been looking back through her latest year and without seeing her lips move has learnt what films she likes, how she often drinks beer with friends after seeing films, which shops she likes to go to, who she likes to shop with, how she hates her work, and (this gave Daniel a notable twanging pleasure of reassurance) how her life really is a disappointment to her. As he read that last one, a few days before today, he noticed the perfect point of conversation from which their relationship can thicken. Thus it was decided upon, a chance meeting had to be staged.
Daniel is sipping tea from one of the twelve dirty mugs from around his computer. Refreshing the page every thirty seconds, waiting for it to come. He's been sat here all day and the rods behind his eyes are starting to catch on something in the socket and it's giving him a headache. A tweet comes through: “Amy_whitee7: Perfect day for a beer garden.” The location punctiliously added: The Horse and Crown, Westfield, Fleetwood. A swelling of the chest, a cord snaps, is somehow twisted and then dropped into the stomach for the acid to do it's work. She's ten minutes away. He can be there in five. His thick fingers dive into a side draw, pick out an antiperspirant and spray his t-shirt in zig-zags. He stands up and runs through the cloud but some has gone on his tongue and it gives a fizzy, matted roughness on the roof of his mouth. He runs down the stairs, puts his hand on the front door handle for a few seconds before opening it. The sun shrivels both of his eyes.
He walks to the end of the road and then starts running down the slope towards The Horse and Crown. Cars parked onto the pavement force him to lead his shoulders diagonally down the slope. The good thing about running down hill is you're not really running, you're just not falling. As he gains a rhythm, the sound of his feet slapping onto concrete give him an emancipated feeling, running like he is with the sun on his face. An army marching into battle. He's going into the Horse and Crown to liberate Amy, not to conquer. This feeling quickly washes away. Sweat has started to sting the dried out skin on his scalp and back. His armpits now have a slippery propulsion as he swings his arms forward. His knees are starting to get pinned but he reaches the pub car park before he could do any serious damage. A large square patch, undulated by cars of different heights and lengths, lays beside a square mock mansion, solid, brick structure. Plastic canvas signs showing lunchtime deals stand sheath-like, covering the gaps in the wooden fencing that continues around both sides of the car park and building. The pub itself has an aura of have been refurbished into a franchise of similar establishments. The black board bearing the golden letters: 'The Horse and Crown,' is pinned onto the brick above the main entrance. The pale, jet-washed bricks bend around each corner towards the garden. The reflection of the sun shines from the bonnets of the cars and into Daniels closing eyes. With shoulders aching low and head arched over onto it's right side, he circles towards the door.
A few steps from the entrance he sees his reflection in the window. Patches of sweat are creeping down his t-shirt from the armpits and are almost at his middle. More drops are starting to be gathered up by his t-shirt over the sternum. He can only imagine what his back looks like. 'I need to get dry,' Daniel says to himself. Turning back down the path, he decides to find a hidden area of the car park where the sun can dry his body and shirt. He notices a spot shielded by a black 4x4 and starts to walk over to it.
Once behind the car he right-angles his back and starts trying to pull off the t-shirt. The thing won't come off and as he pulls harder the stitches start to rip and the neck explodes wide open. Finally off, but made of different strands of different lengths, Daniel holds his shirt up by the shoulder seams and pushes his arms above his head, with his back to the pub. The sun narrows his eyes and the ache in his eyebrows forces his eyes to close altogether. The soft air feels as if it's pushing the sweat from the hairs at his armpit and chest and sudden rushes from the prevailing sweep any dust from his lungs. His insides feel emptied, cleaned, wiped-down and polished from the running. He stands in this way for a few minutes before moving his stubby fingers to his armpit to check on his sweat. All seems fairly good so he opens his eyes to see the t-shirt. The front looks clear, if slightly salt-stained, but the back needs some sunlight so he turns around after orientating the back of the shirt to face the sun. He then closes his eyes again. As the warmth starts to hug the back of his neck Daniel thinks of a good way to reintroduce himself to Amy.
Oh hello! How've you been?
Not so good actually. You?
Me neither. C'mon let me get you a drink.
Okay. Just one though, got work tomorrow.
Fuck work.
God! You're insane. Didn't know you were a...what is it?
Free Spirit? Yeh just a little bit.
Now he knew what was going to happen he was pretty much ready to go in. Just a minute longer, he thought, just to be sure. The wind is picking up now and tickling the back of his ears as it rushes through the gap between his arms and head. He can imagine the t-shirt swinging above him as if on a washing line, hanging from his pinched fingers.
'Daniel? Is that you?' A voice says from before him.
'Eehhh.'
'Daniel! It's me. Remember? Amy, from school.' The voice goes from mid to high pitch.
'Oh, hi.” These words stumble out his mouth. Only audible to himself.
'You going in? We're just leaving.' Pointing to a plump, dark haired girl
about a few years younger than herself.
'Yeh.'
'Okay. Well...bye.' With this they climb into the 4x4. Once in they can still see Daniel with his hands still above him holding his t-shirt. He turns around to avoid having to look at them. And they get a rear view. Great rolls of fat spilling over his side onto his belt. Daniel hears the car quickly start and reverse quicker than you'd go forwards in a car park. A quick swish as it turns on loose rocks and the sound fades. Daniel turns around to check on their progress. The car stops at the roundabout momentarily and then joins the traffic sooner than it should. His heart rattles onto it's veins causing him to get light headed. His arms down now he slips the dry t-shirt over his head and onto his dry body. He then walks out of the car park himself.
As he walks back up the hill to his room, with the ringing sun taking what little is left of the puddles in the dips of the pavement, Daniel thinks on how few chances he has left to get it right. And in one sunken moment of incomprehensible truth, he accepts how hard is life will forever be.
Thanks :)
It was a good read.