Friday, 7 March 2008

Five. A Crash Of Rhinos

Whenever I’m nervous, my feet grow really big and I start clomping about and knocking into things. I have noticed that this is something that Ivan also does. This fact makes me feel a kind of kinship with him. Is that even a word? It just makes me feel like maybe I’m not so “on my own”, and that the stupid things I do aren’t really just unique to me. Nobody wants to be the only one to walk into the bar. It’s good to know there are other people who didn’t see it either.

We have been going “out and about” quite a lot. We are doing things that friends do, but without the rest of our friends. It isn’t a big conspiracy or anything. It is just the way it has worked out. We have held hands for at least an hour of each excursion. It feels nice. Neither of us actually mentions that we are holding hands. It is as if our hands are separate entities with an agenda of their own. Some days they go to a salsa class. (This isn’t as glamourous as it sounds.) They spend the whole time being in the wrong place, banging into each other and then feeling self-conscious so trying to hide at the back, behind Walter and Peggy, who are aged about 102 but can salsa like demons. Other days they take a dip, and swim as far out to sea as they can. They are like eels, full of electricity. And then sometimes they climb on board that “pirate ship” ride and swing right up into the path of the sun, before swinging right back down again to do the same in the opposite direction. When our hands swing like that, my stomach flips over and over and I feel like a crash of rhinos is having a game of football in my belly. It is best when they sleep, though. When our hands sleep, they nestle each finger all cosy and peaceful, and I peep down at them and steal glances and feel really quiet inside, like I am full of feathers.

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