Click. L. Smyth

request.

      The minutes ticked by. I waited for her to accept. Nothing.

      So I began to draft an accompanying message. Even in the first sentence I was aware of how weird I sounded: ‘I’m Eva, the girl from the toilet earlier …’ – it was difficult for me to carry on past that. Everything I wrote either sounded too eager and blunt: ‘so is there a party going on tonight???’, or falsely casual: ‘what’s the deal with the …’ I typed them out over and over again, deleting, redrafting and then eventually settling for the first thing I had written. I added in extra details, such as where I was living, where we could meet and what I could bring. I cringed at how long it was but forced myself to hit send anyway.

      Ten minutes crawled by and no response came.

      Now it was quarter to ten. I walked to the campus corner shop and bought a bottle of wine. It was one of those cheap bottles with a screw cap, a label depicting a pastel cartoon of some berries, and garish Italian font scrawled all over it in an unsuccessful attempt to make it look drinkable. I thought about guzzling it down right there in the middle of the pavement, just to get it over with. But before I could wrench off the lid, my phone vibrated in my pocket. Marina’s name flashed across the screen.

      yeah there now

      58 st clements

      Was that supposed to be an invitation?

      I hovered in the lamplight. I thought about going back to my room. Then I thought: fuck it. I unscrewed the cap of the wine, took a large swig, and began walking towards St Clements before I had time to think about turning around.

      ***

       Someone is watching me.

       He is sat a few tables away, beside the bookcase marked T-V. It is dusky over there, there is not much light. But I can still see his eyes staring out at me from the darkness.

       At first I wasn’t entirely sure that it was me that he was watching. I thought that I was imagining it, or perhaps that he was looking at the clock behind me – but now it has become impossible to think otherwise. Every time I look up, his eyes burn into mine. I can feel them settle on me again when I look down. Now he is actually grinning: a slash of yellow teeth, like a slice of lemon. I can see him getting up. He packs his books into a satchel. He begins walking towards me. I feel panic. My hands grab at the stack of newspapers and clasp them into to my chest.

       ‘Hello,’ he says, approaching my desk. ‘Are you all right?’

       His voice is calm and low, with the hint of an accent.

       ‘Oi, I asked you a question. Are you all right?’

       Slowly I nod.

       ‘You look familiar,’ he says. ‘Have we met?’

       A beat goes by – then: no, I tell him. No we don’t know each other.

       ‘Are you sure?’ he says again.

       No. I’ve never seen him in my life.

       ‘Well, are you from around here?’

       I say nothing.

       ‘You’re not, I can tell.’

       I say nothing.

       ‘Maybe you want to see the local sights. We can go for a drink if you want.’

       Silence.

       ‘Does that sound nice? Do you maybe fancy going for a drink? Or a coffee?’

       No, I tell him.

       ‘We could go to the pub. I know a nice place around the corner.’

       No, I’m fine.

       He makes a face, like I’ve confused or upset him. ‘Why were you staring at me if you weren’t interested?’

       I look back at the screen. I wasn’t staring at him.

       ‘Yes you were. Sat over here giving me the eyes.’

       I continue to stare at the screen. The black screensaver descends, the cursor flickers. I hold the mouse and wait for him to go away. He hovers for a few minutes, puts his hands into the pockets of his squeaky leather jacket. I feel a sudden, dreadful certainty he is going to touch me.

       But he doesn’t.

       Instead he sighs, shakes his head, murmurs something and turns away. I hear him walking in the direction of the exit. I wait a long time before turning to look after him.

       When I see that he is gone, I pull my sleeves over my knuckles, straighten my neck. I pull my skirt down so that the fabric is no longer rucked up beneath my upper thighs.

       Upper thighs. My breathing tightens. I squeeze my eyes shut and try not to think about it.

      vi.

      Henry was about six foot four, with slim, quick features and a head of sharp blonde hair. He wore an expensive long coat, which moved like a blade of grass. I watched it sway gently in the breeze as he leaned against the doorway, frowning at me.

      After the long walk to the house party, guided by limited 3G (signal is patchy in the Northam area), I had perched my empty bottle on the garden wall and knocked at the door. Henry had opened it.

      He was a composed drunk, but an irritable one, and in any case he was drunk. He looked me over, tightened his jaw. I was struck by its sharp angle. Everything about him was elegant.

      Eventually he said: ‘Hello?’

      ‘Hello – I’m with Marina,’ I stuttered. The wine slurred my words. I wished I could make them sound less apologetic.

      Henry didn’t respond to this information at first. He looked pensive, as though he were trying to place the name. Then his eyes bloomed into large, black orchids and he nodded.

      ‘Oh right, hi – Henry.’ He gestured towards himself. ‘She’s just over here … She’s in the …’ He turned his back, and his coat flapped up to expose a glimpse of silky paisley shirt as he walked away.

      ‘I’m E—’ I began.

      But before I could finish my sentence I was being swept into the hallway. Cigarette smoke drifted into my nostrils and eyes; strobe lights flashed wildly from the room next door; a strange kind of music thudded into my ears along with the ceaseless chatter of the people around me. I swirled through them into the house party.

      What struck me first was not the noise or the smell but the number of people. The corridor was littered with people, people people people. They were leaning against bannisters, slouching on the ground beneath the window with cigarettes in their drooping hands, jiggling beer bottles while shuffling awkwardly to the music, or dancing madly before suddenly steeling themselves and leaning flat against the wallpaper. I scuttled past – trying to keep Henry in my sights as he sliced ahead of me at an impatient clip – and caught fragments of their conversations. ‘So Heidegger, I think actually, let’s be honest, when it comes down to it, is maybe not that wrong?’

      ‘Not sure about that mate.’

      ‘No – not crime. It’s grime and punishment. It’s an event I’m running.’

      Oh right, I thought, squinting through them for Henry’s figure, so it’s this kind of party. The kind of party