Short Story in Dialogue, III

“Not gonna lie Alfred Nobel actually had a really good immortality hack. Like he just goes, I’m so sad I invented dynamite and became impossibly rich—I know, as a penance I’ll set up prizes in my name which’ll ineffaceably tie every world-historical scientist and peace activist and all these incredible artistic writers to me for the rest of time. So good. So clever. You win the Nobel prize. Alfred Nobel, we all remember him. Who remembers whoever invented nitroglycerine?”

“Is that inventable?”

“You know what I’m saying Tommy.”

“Googling. Someone called Sombrero.”

“Latino?”

“Oh wait—Sobrero, Italian. Lol, “a thick and viscous fluid.””

“Are we gonna book this holiday?”

“I dunno. Why are you always thinking about getting away all the time? What’s wrong with here?”

“It’s normal to book holidays.”

“I know it is. But this many?”

“A holiday is not an escape from life. It’s an apotheosis of life. It’s life life. You know?”

“Kinda. But life’s also life life.”

“Life can be. Holidays you’re like, I dunno, expediting things.”

“Which things?”

“Good things. The nice things. Meals, drinks, walking.”

“We are having a drink on a walk right now.”

“But not in a holiday sort of way.”

II

“White chocolate…your skin smells of white chocolate. Or, what’s that, cocoa butter. Close up.”

“Yours—gimme your arm. It’s hard to say. Sort of shower gel. But not really actually. Like, sort of chemical-y—”

“Chemical-y—”

“Not chemical-y, I meant to say like, nutrients, no, I mean like, chemical-y, yknow, like the sort of fruity chemical-y clean-smelling smell of shower gel?”

“I smell clean.”

“Well yeah? That isn’t something to get disappointed about. I could’ve said you smell like rancid shit or something.”

“It’s not exciting, though.”

“Well, it’s not about the smell, it’s about the person. You can’t have a sexy smell. You smell like Edward, and Edward’s hot to me. So you smell hot to me, but, in objective terms, you also smell of shower gel.”

“Hot to you. And both hot and not. As in the transubstantiation, I’m both the blood and have the properties of blood but not the blood. To you.”

“You’re going all Catholic again, I don’t get it. I didn’t mention blood. Shower gel.”

“To you.”

“You’re hot to me, what’s wrong with me saying that?”

“What’s wrong with your saying that from my perspective is that that implies that it’s only because you’re into me that I’m hot, I’m hot relative to your perception, and so in the same way I’m not hot to anyone else. Right?”

“No. You’re hot to me because you’re hot.”

“Whatever.”

“Way too much brain in your head.”

“Okay.”

“Stop being like that. I’m complimenting you. Can’t you just lie in my arms fucking delightfully for once?”

“I’m trapped in myself.”

“Meaning? What’s that mean?”

“I just live out comparisons whenever I’m with you. Look. Bronzed abs. Who the fuck is bronzed? Yet Tommy Michaels is bronzed. Okay. I’m not bronzed.”

“You sort of have abs.”

“That’s from being skinny, not from having worked out.”

“Same end result.”

“How are you so tanned? All year round? It’s almost like you’re ill. Have you got Addison’s disease? Have you checked?—like JFK.”

“I dunno. Someone in the family must’ve got with a sailor.”

“Do sailors have perma-tans? Isn’t that because of the job? On the quarterdeck, unmitigated sun above you? Climbing rigging?”

“I meant because they’re not from England so they might’ve had Spanish in them or Greek or something. Greeks are sailors.”

“My leg’s going numb—there. Greeks are sort of shipping magnates. I don’t know how much of that’s sailing.”

“But they are tanned.”

“Yes. Greeks are tanned. Have you done your Findmypast?”

“My genes?”

“Well yeah.”

“No. Have you?”

“Have I done your Find My Past?”

“Idiot. Have you done yours?”

“I feel like Blumenthal is quite predictable. Pogroms and so on. Mitteleuropa.”

“How come you’re Catholic then?”

“Personal choice.”

“Are your mum and dad fine with that?”

“They’re not religious.”

“Well. The point is, you could gym.”

“What? We’re jumping back to that?”

“I’m saying, to get jacked.”

“I do go to the gym. You don’t, Tommy, and you’re just blessed looking like that.”

“You look good too.”

“Look at you though. Athletic genes.”

“I do do boxing five times a week. So yeah.”

“Athletic sailor genes. And I lift and I still look nothing like that.”

“It’s diet. And cardio. And how much effort you actually put in on the day.”

“Yeah—but I just feel that there are some people who are born to it and some who patently aren’t. And it always seems to be religious people who aren’t born to it, as if there were a direct negative correlation between piety and a man’s muscle mass. Right?”

“I think Schwarzenegger is a Catholic.”

“Outlier.”

“You can talk like that and you can make everyone an outlier. That’s one way to do life. But that won’t change your situation. And anyway, I wouldn’t stay with you if I didn’t think you looked good. Obviously you do.”

“Yes but you like me in precisely the way I’m unattractive to myself, that is in the way people fancy effete Englishmen. For that wan dead violet-eyed look. TB-chic. Right? And you’re just natural himbo-goodlooking. Of which, disgustingly, I’m envious.”

“I’m not a “himbo”, Edward.”

“I’m just using that as a shorthand. Like “jock” or “twink”.”

“And does “himbo” not have a sort of insulting vibe to it?”

“Well it’s a portmanteau isn’t it, him and bimbo, and bimbo is from the Italian, bimbare, to bimb—”

“Whatever.”

“Now you’re whatevering me, Tommy?”

“Let go of me. When you speak quickly in an unthinking moment you say what’s more real to you, so. So you clearly think of me as dumb.”

“You’re not dumb.”

“Not intelligent, then.”

“Are we really going there? Does reading books equate to intelligence? No. You have raw intelligence. Far more than me in certain regards.”

“Certain regards, yeah. Like empathy, self-awareness.”

“Okay then.”

“Look, I dunno if I’m feeling dinner.”

“The booking’s an hour from now.”

“I know. But tonight. I’m in a bad mood. I think it’d be going through the motions.”

“The motions are there to be gone through, Christ, what? What are you saying?”

“I think I might just head to mine tonight, you get me? I just—I just feel we’d be in a better place if I had some time to do, I dunno, fuck all, go on CoD, yeah? Are we really in a position to be going to dinner?”

“Well, we’d need clothes first, but—”

“Emotionally.”

“I’m a chameleon. I can be happy.”

“Yeah. You are. My emotions are slower than yours. But it would be nice to see you tomorrow.”

III

“No, Edward.”

“Why not?”

“It looks stupid.”

“It’s Le Corbusier.”

“It’s a chair that looks like it’s out of a GP’s office. Chair someone might die or shit themselves in.”

“It cost me a grand.”

“Well, you can put it on The Saleroom.”

“I know you own this flat Tommy. But why can’t I help make it mine? It’s a collaboration. Neither of us has ownership over the other’s taste, I get that. But can we meet?”

“Yeah, but not if you’re buying the most unchic things ever made.”

“This is chic! It’s Le Corbusier! It couldn’t be more.”

“It’s just, it’s like something from eighty years ago.”

“It is something from eighty years ago.”

“Well there you go. I’m not an antiques person.”

“There isn’t anything inherently better about the present and in fact you’ll probably find that most people agree with me that the past is better.”

“Dying young, homophobia, all that.”

“Mozart, Tiepolo, Ronald Firbank, Lutyens. The pre-eminence of literature. Opera that the state doesn’t have to fund. Being able to own a flat.”

“I do own this flat.”

“Okay well it doesn’t count if you paid for this with a crypto bet.”

“Let’s make out. Come on.”

“It’s so romantic when you say it like you’re an American.”

“Let’s make out.”

“No Tommy.”

“Why no?”

“Because your beauty makes it impossible for me to consider defiling you? Something like that? I don’t know, do I? I don’t know why not. Maybe just terming it “making out”. Make out with me. Make out with me. Like a sorority girl you’ve gotten drunk. I’m your partner Tommy.”

“My boyfriend.”

“Yes, well.”

“You can’t even say that.”

“Boyfriend. Content?”

“Not really, no. Why would you hide from a word? Why are you trying to make our relationship into a copycat of a straight one? We have all these get-out-of-jail-frees, all this baggage reduction that gays’ privilege gets you, and here you are, making me into your wife.”

“Please. We have problems. Don’t we! We aren’t just external to problems. There are new, different, terrifying other problems. It isn’t a privilege. It’s just a different mode.”

“We’re talking about our life.”

“Dissecting. Feels like that, sometimes.”

“In what possible way?”

“Your forcing me to say “boyfriend”? You’re not a boy. You’re twenty-four. I’m thirty-four! I’d be dead as a Neanderthal by now. I’d literally be past the life expectancy.”

“I am a boy.”

“You own a flat.”

“It’s a mindset.”

“Owning a flat?”

“Being a boy, being young.”

“I’m joking.”

“Owning a flat could be a mindset too actually.”

“Please stop saying things.”

“Edward. Can I say one final thing? Before the kissing—”

“For god’s sake. What?”

“I hate your chair.”

IV

“No, I didn’t do it for that. For those reasons. Not because of your fears that you’re less attractive than I am, but that because of your fears you’ve become impossible to live with? As in, envy, paranoia, are unattractive qualities, which have pushed me out of my love for you. Which is my reason for having done it, if I need to have a reason in order to apologise.”

“Why are you speaking so formally to me right now Tommy?”

“Because it’s one of the only things that’ll get you to actually listen.”

“Well I don’t—”

“See Edward, because even as I speak to you you’re analysing the way I’m talking instead of what I’m saying. Why are you not fucking unhappy?”

“Are you really shouting at me when I’m the one who’s just been cheated on?”

“You’re not moved! You’re not crying!”

“Can you not see how this is a paradox.”

“I’m saying you should be sad that I’ve admitted this. The fact you don’t even care? Well it—”

“Well it what?”

“Well it makes me want to consider doing it again, if only to make you fucking feel something.”

“So, let me be clear, during the conversation we’re engaged in, in which you’ve just told me you’ve cheated on me, not with a rando but with one of my colleagues, you’re now telling me the way I’m reacting to you cheating is making you want to cheat on me again so that I react in the way you specify?”

“Yeah. Yes. Because I almost knew in the moment you wouldn’t care.”

“I do care.”

“You do care—but you pretend or don’t show that you do.”

“Okay, let me force out some tears. Look, I’m crying. I’m squeezing my tear ducts. Tears will come, look.”

“Please stop that. Please.”

“You wanted me crying, here we are.”

“Please stop doing things to your eyeballs, Edward.”

“It’s a manifested, a concretised version of what we’ve just been saying. You want me to cry. I’m not crying. So I will obey the great Tommy, and cry on command.”

“I wanted me cheating on you to bring us closer together.”

“You believed your cheating on me would bring us closer together? See what I mean about paradoxes? You’re mentally ill.”

“I’m not sure I believed it.”

“Then what then?”

“I’m saying I desired it.”

“I do not understand.”

“God can you just get your head out your arse? For someone so intelligent—. I’m saying that maybe a shock to the system would do us good, you’d show emotions, we’d be able to talk about your fears I’d leave you—which will never, ever happen, by the way. We’d talk about that and you’d get more comfortable with me simply existing and not be terrified there’s going to be a Tommy-sized hole in your life out of nowhere. Do you get me?”

“No, not really. No.”

“Just—God.”

“Well so here’s my take: you said you’ve been pushed out of your love for me. You say you cheated for that reason. Now you also say, a similar but different thing, that you’ve cheated because you essentially do love me and want to love me more. Now in neither of these scenarios is cheating an act of love. I sort of believe that you wanted to just cause some sort of lightning-strike fuck-the-world sort of crashing down of things, which might mean we’d reassess, reevaluate our relationship. But I’m supposed to believe you want to cheat on me again because I’m not visibly sad enough that your bizarre plan hasn’t worked? Rather, Occam’s Razor, I think you just want to shag him again.”

“Well, no, because I was thinking of someone else.”

V

“Hi. Joe?”

“Nice to meet you, Edward.”

“Haha, never know whether to go in for the handshake or the hug first time—”

“Yeah I know right.”

“Nice place.”

“You think so?”

“Well, yeah, I’ve never been here though, but I don’t quite know why because I actually used to live in the area with my ex.”

“Right into the deep end.”

“Sorry. Can you tell I haven’t dated in a while?”

“No, it’s funny. It’s cute.”

“So Joe you said you’re, what was it, industrial chemist?”

“Yeah exactly.”

“I love that shirt on you by the way.”

“Aw. Thanks.”

“So what does industrial chemist mean?”

“I do the ice cream flavours.”

“Just the flavours?”

“Oh. Yeah. Just the flavours. Someone else does texture.”

“I’d’ve thought they’d’ve been sort of, part and parcel, you know? Like if you edited the flavour component it might change the texture?”

“Well it’s all syrups, which are stabilised, so it doesn’t really, it doesn’t really matter to us.”

“I find that banana ice cream is underrated. Like, rare.”

“Yeah, banana’s not popular.”

“Yet people love eating bananas. Quintessential fruit. Coincidentally: my nickname.”

“Haha. Yeah.”

“I’ve also never seen watermelon ice cream. Is that just me? Is there such a thing?”

“Well, it’s that watermelon is actually not that flavourful. Not that distinct a flavour note really.”

“No? I think it is. I think it has that sweet, slightly vomity taste? It’s like if sick tasted amazing.”

“Hi gents, do you know what you’re thinking of ordering?”

“Oh, sorry, we haven’t even had a look.”

“No worries. I’ll give you a couple mins.”

“Sorry Joe. Talking about vomit when we’re about to eat.”

“It’s fine.”

“I guess it’s nice to speak to someone who has a real job, you know? “Industrial chemist.” That’s so utterly a job—a job job. My ex was a PT who did crypto on the side. Could you think of a more basic combo? It’s like, hello, it’s for you, Dubai calling. Right? So he took care of himself and did fake tans and such, not in a repulsive way but in a more like a tasteful sort of way. Took, I said, well, takes, he’s not dead, right. But can you imagine the convos we had to have? Oh, I have this client, he’s a bit delusional about how much he can bench. Oh, I’m going to a crypto conference to go and scam some more teenagers. Not literally that, but that adjacent. You know?”

“Yeah. Must’ve been hard.”

“Yeah, it was hard. It was like, here’s this person I’ve fallen in love with despite it all, someone so totally unalike me—perhaps like if you took a wax cast of me, he’d be the negative, the opposite, every single quality the opposite of mine. He hated anything more than a year old. Clothes. Furniture. He wanted a glass box for a flat. And I want someone who can appreciate the Victorians, you know?”

“Yeah. So do you know what you wanna order—?”

“Oh, sorry, haven’t had a chance to look. But so see, industrial chemistry is a breath of fucking—because we lived together, put our record collections together, metaphorically, neither of us owning records or a record player—and so I come home and daily get to hear about the travails of the local oldies at the David Lloyd gym. And if I should ever have complained—woe betide. Sorry. I’m going on.”

“It’s okay.”

“So have they ever done a custard ice cream? I feel like that’s a gap in the market.”

VI

“Thanks for having this coffee, Tommy.”

“Well of course.”

“It’s just that, perhaps you might feel the same, but it’s been a weird six months.”

“It has.”

“For various reasons.”

“Yes. For various reasons.”

“I’ve been dating. Not well. One of them called me Eddie.”

“Ah.”

“I presume you have too?”

“No, actually.”

“No?”

“No, I haven’t seen anyone.”

“Hm.”

“I do think about you.”

“I would’ve thought given that you were keen to see other guys, not in a getting with way but in a going out with way, that you might’ve been dating.”

“Maybe. I dunno. Some time by myself, single, not dating, I felt might be a good thing to do.”

“I get you.”

“Latte?”

“Oh mine thanks.”

“And here’s the espresso.”

“Cheers.”

“So well all of my dating has been unmitigated cringe. I mean. Am I out of practice? Is more expected of me because of my age compared to theirs?—they’ve all been twenty, twenty-two. How was your twenty-fifth by the way?”

“Nice thanks. Yeah, nice. It felt weird without you being there.”

“It felt weird not being there Tommy. I mean, that’s the funny thing about dates, birthdays—they’re like all these sort of appointments in your head to keep, only the person might be out of your life, or have passed away, or have been long forgotten and not in contact. Nevertheless. Still in the diary. Still up on the horizon, coming into view. Right?”

“Yeah.”

“So I wanted to see you because I wanted to have a difficult conversation.”

“Go on. You can be open with me.”

“Thank you. Well, so, it’s sort of—I don’t really know how to put it into words. I’ll try. I wondered if you would accept my apology, and perhaps offer me an apology, for parity, and that we could give it another go? I mean, literally try getting back together. Not immediately. Dating first. Not being ‘boyfriends’ straight off the bat.”

“I think we could. Yeah, I think we could try that. It would almost be romantic to try it blank slate.”

“Tabula rasa, yeah.”

“You are still a pretentious clown.”

“A learned clown. A scholarly clown.”

“A pretentious clown.”

“I probably am.”

“You said boyfriends.”

“I’m experiencing what they call “growth”.”

“It suits you.”

“Thank you. The moustache suits you.”

“Works in blond?”

“Works in blond. Doubly so. It’s like a Labrador, Aussie, Austin Butler kind of thing.”

“I’ll take it.”

VII

“So Tommy sent me an invitation to his wedding. His wedding with Justin, remember Justin, the guy he first cheated with? Justin.”

“Is his name Justin.”

“Yeah.”

“Just checking. Well Edward—are you gonna go?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t even seen him in person in over two years. There was some weird Zoom call babyshower thing we were both on. I thought his eyes might be looking at my tile on the Zoom. You know, you sort of see their eyes going diagonal and it’s clear they’re not looking at the person who’s speaking? But then, he could have been looking at himself. It was a real riddle. But I’m going to believe it was me, the whole time. So what does that say? And the invite?”

“Edward. Be honest. One hundred percent honest. Are you over him?”

“Can you truly get over someone?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. Then no, no I doubt that I am.”

“So won’t going to his wedding be?”

“Difficult? Horrible? Yeah, maybe. Yeah.”

“Don’t go if you don’t want to.”

“It was mature of him to invite me, no?”

“I guess.”

“And I do want him to be happy. He’s a good person.”

“So are you.”

“In my own way—possibly. Not like Tommy is.”

“I think you’re right.”

“About?”

“Your not being over him quite yet.”

VIII

“I cannot even begin to fathom how much of a faff a divorce is.”

“Well. It’s not great.”

“Who gets the dog?”

“I dunno, we haven’t talked about Greta yet, Edward.”

“You should take her. Kidnap her.”

“Kidnap a dog? Can you do that?”

“In the sense of stealing her. Abduct?”

“That’s more for like, dictators or children, no?”

“Get the dog.”

“I do want her.”

“What’s your alternative? I’ll come with you Tommy. We can pretend I’m doing a Deliveroo or something. I’ll wear a balaclava. I’ll rush in, get the dog from him.”

“It’s a nice idea. It might have to stay an idea.”

“What’s your alternative? You chop her in half, King Solomon, half a dog each?”

“Is that what happened? I’m not chopping Greta in half.”

“No, it was a baby in fact, not a dog, and they didn’t bisect it in the end. I think one of them sort of screamed louder. You could try that.”

“I could. I love Greta but I sort of feel as if I want to totally cut my ties from that life.”

“Never leave a dog behind. Never. You can’t go to your grave having done that.”

“I’m leaving my whole life behind.”

“It was only two years. You’re going to recover. You’re not even thirty.”

“Maybe.”

“Let’s get drunk. Please. I’ll make boulevardiers. They’ll facilitate a DMC. You need that.”

“Fuck it. I do.”

“Hooray. I’m salivating.”

“Thanks for staying a friend, Edward.”

“For you, dear Thomas—anything.”

IX

“I am never moving here. Why would people move here?”

“I think they must like it. That must be it.”

“How? How could they possibly?”

“Edward, isn’t that your ex?”

“What? Where?”

“There. Look. On the other platform.”

“Oh my god. It is. Tommy! Oi! Tommy!”

“He can’t hear you.”

“Fuck. It’s been years. We completely fell out of touch.”

“He looks good.”

“He’s always going to look good, I’m afraid.”

“You do too.”

“I am not blessed with youth.”

“You were.”

“I was. You only figure out what good being young’s for when you no longer are. It’s a real fucking shame.”

“What do you think he’s doing here?”

“What do I think he’s doing in Hastings? He’s gay. Isn’t that QED? The seaside attracts us. We’re like seagulls.”

“Want to go over?”

“To see Tommy?”

“Yeah. Seeing that our train’s delayed, why not?”

“Um.”

“Do you?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re never nervous. What’s going on?”

“I don’t know if I want to bring all that up again. It felt like a closed door.”

“It still is. He hasn’t seen you.”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, who’s that?”

“Whoever he is, he’s hot.”

“I haven’t seen him on Tommy’s Insta.”

“He doesn’t post. I don’t even know if he uses it.”

“New boyfriend?”

“Well, they’re kissing now. That seems pretty logical.”

“I can’t tell with gays.”

“...”

“They’ve now stopped.”

“I know Kirsty, thanks. I have eyes.”

“He’s looking at us. Tommy’s looking. Edward. He sees you. He’s not saying anything.”

“I’m not saying anything either.”

“Why isn’t he reacting?”

“Why aren’t I?”

“Want to go over?”

“I don’t think I do. No. I don’t think I do. It’s best we stay where we are. That’s best, I think.”

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