Part 1
“I miss you,
But I haven’t met you yet.
So special,
But it hasn’t happened yet.532Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡDD8e4PtMyn
You are gorgeous,
But I haven’t met you yet.
I remember,
But it hasn’t happened yet.”
Bjork – I miss you
Don’t look so much at your feet. Turn out your knees. When you catch her eye, keep contact. Don’t stare though. Try to imbue confidence. Smile. Don’t take her hand, get down on one knee and kiss it. Chivalry is dead and knights are creepy. Words. I need words. I have words…but not the right words. What are the words? Who’s got the words? - Pitt? Clooney? They’ve got the looks. I don’t have the looks. I mean I’ve got a look. It’s not a bad look, I think. But it’s not the look looks - So words. Stephen Fry, he’s got words. He’s not exactly a lady’s man though. Is that homophobic? No. If anything that just affirms his sexuality. But are lady’s men exclusively straight men? I guess that would be the dictionary definition of a lady’s man. I’m sorry Mr. Fry; it wasn’t a criticism of your sexuality, just a tangential comment from my pursuit of a man that I might take as my champion and role model in order to woo the love of my life. Was that comment homosexual? Well I suppose gay guys might like the same lines as a girl might anyway, right? Wasn’t this a Hollywood movie in the 90's? Don't get distracted. OK. Words. Who’s got the best words? Trump, he’s got good words… the best words. Do you think you’re the first person to ever think about Stephen Fry and Donald Trump in the same internal monologue? What if they met? What if Trump was on QI? I think I think too much. Try to vocalize it. She’s looking at you. Make a wordy noise string.
“Can you imagine if Trump was on QI?”
“QI?” the skin on the bridge of her nose wrinkled and her eyebrow lifted up in bemusement. I guess Stephen Fry wasn’t a hit with the ladies.
“Is one of the answers about Trump?” She knew Trump! Maybe he did have the best words…God I hope not, I'm doomed it that's the case.
“Err,” my eyes flitted from the wall behind her to her pupils and then back again. Contact, contact! “Err, no. I was just thinking about Stephen Fry, you know he knows a lot of words, and then I was thinking about Trump, you know he says he has the best words,” I babbled.
At least that’s the words I heard myself say but judging by her reply, ‘what? I didn’t get any of that.’ I must have mumbled. I mumble a lot. Especially when I talk to girls. I know, what a cliché.
Ergh I hate it when they mix you up into pairs.
“FIVE MINUTES LEFT!” Came a voice over the speaker connected to a Diva style mic, attached to the side of the lecturer’s face.
“So, can I read your notes?” She asked, high and squeaky. She hadn’t done the reading. Luckily, I had. “Or I guess we could just discuss it.”
“Well, I think that a Freudian analysis of the text best highlights the underlying themes.” I said this very quickly, completely forgetting about the eye contact and definitely not radiating confidence. Come on. Confident, you know this. Show her you know what you’re talking about.
“Dracula’s need to suck blood, the interpretation of steaks as a phallic symbol and the scene where his bride, what’s her name, she sucks on his nipple, what’s her name?” I asked to the room in general. She looked at me blankly. I clicked my fingers three times in an attempt to recall the name of the bride but it continued to allude me.
“Wasn’t Freud a psychologist?”
“Uh, yeah I think,” I knew, but I felt it wasn’t cool to know who Freud was, although I had just said the words suck and nipple out loud so perhaps it no longer mattered what I knew or not. “It’s like, psychoanalyses or something.” Why do I care what’s cool still! Wasn’t I meant to be cool just for wanting to learn now I was at university?
“Oh, yeah I heard about that somewhere.” She said airily.
Maybe it was in the lecture last week. This wasn’t working. Phallic steaks and lactating vampires were not the right words.
“Did you just say nipple by the way?”
“Lucy!” I blurted, the name of Dracula’s bride coming back to me.
“I’m Becky.” She said not grasping my latent exclamation.
“Nice to meet you” I answered automatically.
“Erm, we already met, I mean we’ve been taking this class for like two months now and we all introduced ourselves at the beginning.” She sounded pretty disturbed by my answer.
Oh the awkward introductions. Everyone stand up in front of the class and tell us a little about yourselves. Great. I love those situations. Doesn’t everyone…No I don’t mean it. Seriously. Do people really enjoy it? God, I can’t imagine. How is it possible a sentence about yourself can really consist of anything more than ‘yeah I think I’m alright’ and ‘my main hobbies are watching series on Netflix’? Anything more and I assume you spend your time in the morning smiling into the mirror like a toothpaste advert while the rest of us lie in bed smashing our phones against the wall hoping to press the snooze button. Does that mean everyone that describes themselves with more than one adjective is a narcissist? Yes, probably.
“TIME’S UP!” announced our diva lecturer.
“Oh crap, we didn’t get anything down.” Becky tweeked. That is how best I would describe her voice. Tweeky. It was an irritating kind of high-pitched ringing noise that wasn’t really all that pleasant to listen to.
“So,” continued the would be Whitney Houston. “Anyone want to volunteer to start?” He looked around the room, head cocked up slightly with an expectant expression running across his wrinkled face. Nobody moved. Some looked to their feet, others tried to call his bluff and stared across towards him.
“No,” he said “nobody? Ok I’ll just have to pick on somebody then” He pushed his right hand through his corrugated grey hair, slicked backed from his forehead. He was handsome for an old guy, except for the fact that his sense of fashion hadn’t moved on since he’d been a young guy, still choosing to wear his chord trousers up around his nipples… Really got nipples on my mind today.
It’s going to be us. If it’s not us it will be a miracle, but it’s going to be us.
“Becky,” it was us, of course it was us, “and Sam”. Sam, that isn’t my name.
My name is Seb. Well Seb, short for Sebastian, which I hated, but at this moment I couldn’t be happier that my name was Sebastian and not Sam!
Whitney looked expectantly across the room. Unlucky Sam, whoever you are, hope you’ve done the reading even though I don’t think half the plebs in this class have ever read an article unless it resided on the back of a beer bottle. The room was still silent and strangely everyone appeared to be looking in my direction. In fact Whitney appeared to be looking at me as well.
“Well come on then,” he said expectantly. “Come to the front of the class and let’s hear it.”
“I thought your name was Seb?” Becky muttered. The lecturer had obviously not remembered my name, even after two months… how depressing.
“Pleased to meet you Lucy,” I muttered back in reply.
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