2
MIA
I dance everywhere I go. It’s a bad habit but also something I attribute to the natural rhythm and joy that just flows through me.
Ed doesn’t agree. He thinks my dancing looks like I’m swatting away swarms of imaginary insects.
Naturally, the kitchen sees the best of my moves but if we’re in a pub and I’ve had just the right amount of alcohol in my system then we are set to launch. Plus, I bloody LOVE this song.
‘Really?’ Ed says, watching me do my moves as he stands there waiting for our drinks to be served, his card hovering, waiting to tap the card machine.
He’s so bloody efficient. I’m the sort who has to rummage through all four compartments of her handbag and both coat pockets to check it’s about my person, and even then I’ll try to pay with a library card.
‘This song was all over TikTok… Come on, I’ll teach you the moves,’ I say, dragging his arm towards an open space.
‘That would be a firm no,’ he replies, arms crossed stubbornly.
‘But it’s The Weeknd.’
‘No, technically it’s still Friday.’
‘No, the dude singing the song, that’s his name.’
‘That’s not a name.’
‘I actually despair of you.’
I break into a move and plant an elbow into a man next to me.
‘Control your girlfriend, mate,’ he mutters.
‘Not my girlfriend,’ Ed replies. ‘Thank God…’
I narrow my eyes at him. Oh, you would be so lucky to have this rhythm in your life, Eduardo. I don’t know why you fight it. I laugh and hug him and feel his body relent. It is my life’s mission to break this man’s barriers down.
‘You never told me about that bloke you’re seeing? That bloke you met on Plenty of Fish,’ he asks me.
I like that I can talk about my dating antics with Ed. He listens and offers counsel, but I think even he’ll admit my stories are a good source of entertainment too.
‘Oh, that’s not happening anymore,’ I explain.
‘Why not?’ he asks, disappointed. ‘You had sex with him, and you told me how much you enjoyed the event…’
I grin to hear him talk about it so politely. My actual words were that I orgasmed so hard, I yodelled.
‘So, it turns out he was a bit of a dick…’
‘Yeah, you mentioned that,’ Ed says, smirking.
‘No, the personality. We went on a date, and he showed up drunk, spent five hours telling me football anecdotes while getting more drunk, so I put him in an Uber which he threw up in. This meant I had to pay the fouling charge AND the bar bill.’
Ed looks supremely appalled. ‘I’m sorry. That is grim. Did he at least try to repay you?’
‘No.’
‘And I guess no sex is worth that, right?’
‘You are correct. I just don’t know what’s happening with men and me at the moment.
There’s always something; either the sex is good and they’re dicks or they’re nice but don’t know what to do with their dicks.
I think I’m just better off with my vibrator.
’ Ed flinches to hear me talk like this in public.
He just about tolerates my ridiculous dancing but sometimes when I talk frankly and loudly about sex I see his body recoil with embarrassment, telling me how far we’ve travelled out of his comfort zone.
‘Or just go on dates. Get to know people and build a relationship first,’ he advises me like a grown-up adult.
‘But if I was that sensible, Eddie, I would have no stories for you and that would be dull. I wouldn’t be able to tell you about the bloke who brought me back to his for sex and his mum came in the room and made us tea.’
‘Or the time that man farted in Pizza Express and blamed it on you,’ Ed reminds me, bent over in hysterics. The reason he can laugh and I won’t get insulted is that there is enough space there now for these to be pub stories. In the moment, it always feels like I’m just some sort of bad man magnet.
‘I just need a break from you men. You’re the exception though. Our platonic love affair will and must continue. If only for the free sandwiches.’
His expression brightens to hear me change the subject, and he looks reasonably happy with that suggestion.
And, like making him blush, I do love to make Ed happy, to hear those laughs, even if they are usually at my expense.
It does nice things to his face. If only I could make him dance though, just a little.
I try and bop my hips into his. Yep, that’s definitely not happening.
‘Who do I have to thank for this?’ Beth asks us as she comes over and half downs a beer. Ed puts his hand in the air. She slaps him on the back to say thank you. ‘Needed today. From the sounds of it, it’s been a hard week for all…’
‘That’s because it’s April,’ I say.
We all toast in agreement with that. April is the three-quarter point in the school calendar where the finish line still feels far away, exams are looming, and the kids are starting to turn on each other.
‘Well, here’s to willing the month away without event. Keep those drinks coming, kids,’ she tells us.
Ed salutes her and we watch our colleagues across the pub, all of whom are trading their weekly horror stories, security lanyards removed so no one can identify us when we start calling the kids bad names.
I spy Henry from Geography who always starts the week looking relatively normal and finishes like he’s lost a fight with some feral cats.
These pub visits are common practice with us – birthdays, promotions, leaving drinks, the completion of building works in the Art department – and the arrival of Caitlin today is as good an excuse as any to convene, despair and get steaming pissed this Friday.
‘You’re still staring at her,’ I tell Ed as he faces away from the bar to glance outside at the beer garden, where Caitlin sits with some of the Maths department, most likely chatting calculators and set squares.
The light starts to fade, fairy lights hang off the ivy trellises, a mist from vapes and cigarettes fogging the air.
‘I’m looking. Looking is different to staring. Staring is like…’ He bulges his eyes at me to demonstrate.
I grab a bottle of beer from the bar and take a large sip to stop it overflowing. I turn to look at her too. ‘Is that your type then?’ I ask. ‘She’s quite…’
‘Pretty?’
‘Plain. She’d be the sort who pulls the covers up to her neck, lights off. The sort who wears a nightie.’
‘You don’t wear a nightie?’ Ed asks me, his nose wrinkled up to imagine the alternative.
‘Ed, I usually sleep in just knickers, tits out so they can get an airing.’
‘Too much information.’
‘You did ask. How do you sleep?’
‘Clothed. What if there’s a fire and you have to make a quick escape from your house?’ he tells me.
‘Then I’d make a fireman very happy,’ I joke, confused about how someone has contingencies for sleep-related emergencies. He doesn’t notice the joke because he’s still looking over at Caitlin.
‘I bet she uses hand cream too,’ I say, nibbling at a nail that has scraps of nail polish on it. ‘You’re quite taken with the young maiden, aren’t you?’ I add in Austen tones but still burping slightly under my breath.
He takes a deep resigned sigh. ‘Maybe, but I don’t want to overstep at work.’
‘How professional of you, Rogers,’ I say, half laughing, knowing that I’ve slept with at least two people in this faculty.
Yes, unprofessional but not as bad as the I.T.
department who Ed and I suspect are into a bit of wife swapping.
I reckon their USB sticks are filthy. I turn to Ed, and he downs his drink quite quickly for him.
He is usually a sipper, a sensible sipper of real ales.
‘Hold up there, kiddo. Is this how we’re drinking this evening? I’ll have to get chips…’
‘I think I’m just nervous. Is that weird? I don’t even really know her.’
I smile. Mainly because I’ve never seen Ed like this before.
The Ed I know usually tells me about how he revived a banana plant or how he’s adding barley to his stews now.
We buddy watch The Walking Dead and I steal his lunch.
If we are ever talking of romantic endeavours, then it’s usually me telling him about my sex and dating adventures and him looking at me with the same horror he generally reserves for flesh-eating zombies.
So to see him crushing is ridiculously cute. We never talk about him finding love.
‘Just go and chat to her. Maybe don’t bring up pesto again though… or her lunchbox.’
‘You see, I’m not like you. I’ll say everything I’m not supposed to. I have absolutely zero conversational prowess.’
‘Bullshit, you talk to me every day. I’ve heard you chatting away to your mum on the phone. You talk to the ladies in the school office.’
‘That’s because she’s my mum. And the ladies in the office do good work and appreciate my baking. Shall I talk about cookies?’
‘No, Ed. Just be normal.’
He gives me a look like we’ve only just met. ‘Shall I buy her a drink? Or maybe I should ask her first. It feels presumptuous to just buy her one. Maybe she’s not thirsty and then it’ll be a waste.’
‘Or maybe you’re overthinking this.’ I scrunch my face up trying to hold in my laughter. But then a brilliant idea occurs to me. ‘Actually, given what Beth just told us, do you know what everyone out there will thank you for?’
Ed looks at me and shrugs.
I turn to the bar. ‘Hi, can I get twelve tequila shots? Salt and lemon, too?’
The barman looks back at me with an expression that clearly says, Love, it’s 6.
45p.m. Tequila is not a drink for this time of the evening.
It’s a drink for the last hour of the evening so you don’t remember the finer messier details of those closing moments.
He waits, giving me a moment to re-think that order.
Ed puts a hand on my arm. ‘Seriously? I don’t really do tequila.’
I roll my eyes at him, groaning. ‘That’s like telling me you don’t do fun.’
‘Not when I’m wearing light colours,’ he jokes.