do in rooms?’
‘Not much. I have a few friends that I like to mess about with. Like Corinne. Just meet people really. Chat. Anything. Sometimes other stuff.’
‘What other stuff?’
‘Haha. Like cyber and stuff.’
‘Oh.’
‘You ever cyber?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Loads.’
Literally never.
‘I prefer real life . . . but sometimes it’s not possible.’ ‘What do you look like?’
‘Pic for pic?’
‘Okay. Wait. I’ll take one.’
I go upstairs and open Dad’s wardrobe. There are shirts of various colours on hangers with ties threaded through them. A black one looks small. I put it on without a tie and button it up to the top. I unbutton four buttons. I button up two buttons. I push my hair back. It looks like Bugsy Malone.
On the computer screen my face looks tiny and new. If I turn my head slightly to one side and tip it back then my jaw looks more like the jaw of a mortgage broker. I need to make her want me. I need to be six Aaron Mathews.
‘You took one?’
‘Almost.’
Alice to me: I miss you txt meeeeeeeeexxxxxxxxxx
I make the photo black and white. I make it sepia. I chug some wine. I make it black and white again.
‘I did one,’ I say. ‘I look stupid.’
‘Send it. I sent mine.’
I open the email and download the attachment. The woman who appears in my computer is thin and blonde and attractive. She looks strong, like someone who could punch through walls. I would guess that she is thirty-five, but I can’t really tell because I’m not good with ages over my own. Her skin is the colour of buttered toast. She is smiling and her teeth sit together perfectly like bathroom tiles. I don’t know why she is looking for sex in computers. She should be having passionate, physical sex with men who trim their pubic hair and compete, successfully, in triathlons.
‘You’re beautiful,’ I say. ‘Amazing eyes.’
Amazing nipples showing through the t-shirt.
‘That’s sweet. Your turn.’
‘I’m scared. I look really stupid. You’re the winner.’
‘Send it.’
‘Okay.’
I send it and I wait.
‘You’re handsome. Relax. You have good eyes. I like your shirt.’
‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘It’s mine.’
‘You’re funny.’
‘Thanks.’ I don’t know what to say. ‘What will you do today?’
‘Do laundry. Wash dishes. Try to forget I’m doing either. Nothing exciting. You?’
‘Maybe watch television and go to bed. Nothing exciting either.’ Amundsen comes out from under the table and pushes his face into my leg.
‘Tell me what it’s like where you are. I want to try and picture it.’
I look around the kitchen. There are four plates, two mugs and a dirty cafetiere stacked next to the sink. All of the surfaces are black and the floor is cheap laminate. The pint glass next to me is half full.
‘I’m in my study,’ I say. ‘I’m sitting in an extremely luxurious swivel chair. The carpet is deep and red. If I put my bare feet on it my toes disappear. There are Daniel Clowes prints on the walls.’ Amundsen headbutts my knee. ‘Sounds perfect.’
‘What’s it like where you are?’
‘Well, I’m lying on my bed. It’s king-size and it always feels empty. My carpet is green. There are two big windows. You can see woods and a part of the loch. It’s bright outside and there aren’t any clouds.’
‘I wish I could climb into yours.’
‘No, you don’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s no fun if you can’t climb back out again.’ I don’t know what she means. I still want to climb through. I want to be anywhere that isn’t here. Amundsen rears up and drops his paws onto my thigh. He wants to go outside and I want him to not shit in the house.
‘I have to go,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘It was fun talking. Let’s do it again.’
‘Okay.’
I close the computer and go into the conservatory and open the patio doors. We stand and look out at the garden. Sideways rain hits my nose and forehead. Amundsen steps back.
‘Please go outside,’ I say. ‘If you shit in the house I’m going to make you eat it.’ He looks up at me and his eyes wobble. ‘Come on,’ I say. ‘It’s only rain. You’re a brave dog.’
Still nothing. I sigh. I stand behind him and reach underneath his belly and lift him. He screams and thrashes in my arms like a massive fish. I lose my balance, reach out at invisible hands and fall onto the patio. I lie on the wet paving stones and rain beats down on my back. I don’t want to ever move. I want to be abducted by calm, quiet aliens who are searching distant planets for docile zoo exhibits. He slowly walks out, lowers his face to mine and licks my eye.
Alice Poem #1
You are shit and your birthmark looks
like a fat monkey not like a dandelion I said that
because I like sexing you. In bed you
are like an uncooked joint of beef. Your
birthmark is a giant walrus. Your birthmark
is a dead walrus crying black tears into the
Gulf of Mexico oil spill. You are BP and we
are the Macondo Prospect. Today the bath
felt as big as one hundred baths. I missed
you today. You are shit, idiot.
7
When I’m in bed, Aslam calls and tells me to come to the Bricklayer’s Arms. I tell him I don’t want to, that I’ve lost my fake ID, so I’m going to stay in bed, watch Parks and Recreation and drink this disgusting wine. He says he knew I’d say that and he’s made me a break-up plan.
1. Call her
