to a photo of a cat wearing sunglasses, and her cover photo is now a neon-pink, galactic-looking background.
The first post on her wall is a rant about how the server in Starbucks was rude to her this morning:
Idgi, it concluded. Why do ppl think it’s alright to treat you that way? 0_o
Paul types ‘what does idgi mean’ into Google.
Takes another swig of his lager.
Lights a cigarette.
Tabs back to Facebook.
He turns on chat, not actually intending to chat to her, let’s get this clear, just to see if she’s online, and looks down the list of names (mostly people he went to school with, who he never really talks to any more), and when he sees her name with a small green circle next to it, his heart does a little cartwheel.
He swigs his lager and chain-smokes three more cigarettes, all the while looking at Alison Whistler’s name, wondering what would happen if he just clicked on it.
I could do it, he thinks.
It would be so easy.
I could just type ‘hi’.
‘Hi,’ he types.
But I’m not actually going to press return, he thinks, taking a deep drag on his cigarette, feeling drunk and dizzy and for one brief moment like the Paul he used to remember being: the Paul who wrote that novel, mostly very late at night and a bit drunk, pretending he was Charles Bukowski, the Paul who didn’t have mouth ca—
He presses return.
Oh shit, he thinks, as soon as he’s done it.
Oh shit, oh fuck. What have I done?
‘hi’ Alison messages back, almost instantaneously.
Oh god, Paul thinks. Oh shit. Oh fuck. Oh shit.
He considers just quickly closing the chat box, shutting the laptop down, going straight to bed. Instead he takes a big swig of his can, then a long drag on his cigarette.
‘Hi,’ he types again.
‘how are you?’ Alison messages back, almost instantaneously.
‘OK,’ Paul types. ‘You?’
‘cant sleep,’ Alison types.
‘Me neither,’ Paul types.
There’s a pause.
What the fuck am I doing? Paul thinks.
‘I’d better go to sleep,’ he types, but doesn’t send.
‘theres a lot of sex in your book lol,’ Alison types.
A moment later a little picture appears, of a blushing cartoon face.
Paul deletes ‘I’d better go to sleep’ and types ‘What did you think?’
He is about to send it when his mobile buzzes.
It’s Sarah.
‘Missing you. Can’t sleep. You still awake? xxx,’ it says.
Fucking hell.
Paul deletes ‘What did you think?’ and retypes ‘I’d better go to sleep’, quickly hitting send before he can change his mind.
‘lol,’ Alison Whistler types.
‘Bye,’ Paul types.
‘see you monday,’ Alison types.
Paul doesn’t reply.
He waits.
A winking cartoon face appears.
Alison Whistler has gone offline, the chat box tells him.
LAUREN
2004
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