I didn’t come here to make friends

SHORT FICTION

The corner of my mouth tingles where you kiss it. My cheeks glow under too-bright bar lights. I mumble excuses, tumble into refreshing darkness, and catch the first bus home.

Was it a romantic kiss, or a kiss between friends? In the heat of pink strobes and shimmying bodies, cider still sweet on our tongues, the line between love and lust dissolves. My group of friends enjoy blurring those boundaries, on many a night out.

‘You’re not friends, Seph,’ Oz reminds me.

They have a point.

I met you on April 4th, the fourth queer poetry session in four months. Oz was late, for the fourth time in four months. The drafty room was tucked away in a café basement, poorly sound-proofed from the clatter and steam. A bar of fluorescent light buzzed overhead. Hurried greetings wove between bags unzipping and pens clicking.

In East Asia, the number four is considered unlucky. In Japanese, Korean and Chinese, the word for ‘four’ sounds like the word for ‘death’. But I find it neat, satisfying. Two squared. A third of a clock. Four seasons. The last digit of my birth year.

I doodled a small black cloud in the corner of my notebook. In my peripheral vision, I sensed a presence. Suddenly, a hand on the table, next to mine.

‘Is this seat taken?’ you whispered.

I hadn’t seen you here before. You had a gentle smile and deep, soulful eyes. My gaze was drawn to the collar of your powder-blue shirt, a harmonious contrast with your golden-brown skin. You have locs, tied into a practical ponytail, with little baby tendrils escaping the knots.

I smiled and shook my head. Our knees brushed as you shuffled in closer. I smelled fresh linen, tinged with the warm spring evening.

Geri announced this month’s poetry theme: Lesbian Visibility Week.

You turned to me, conspiratorially.

‘I don’t know anything about lesbians.’

I giggled guiltily.

There was a time I’d dabbled in the lesbian label, like I’d played with many labels in my short history. I eventually accepted my unfortunate attraction to boys – just not the boys at my school, who all had intelligent things to say about me and my arm hair. I later had the troubling revelation that I, too, was a boy. Thus ended my short-lived life of lesbianism. So now, I felt put on the spot, like Billy Eichner had shoved a mic in my face and demanded I name a woman.

You looked like you wanted to say something else, but I bent over my notebook and scribbled a few notes. I found talking to new people uniquely excruciating. Sooner or later, I always said something stupid. Anyway, I was here to write, not to make friends.

Oz shuffled in, better late than never. They had a new friend in tow – tall and striking, with multicoloured hair. They probably met at one of Oz’s mysterious hobbies. I waved, but there was no room at our end of the table. They squeezed past and sat with the other stragglers.

When Geri announced a break, we read our poems aloud. Mine was hot

garbage.

Hail to the L in the LGBT –

Who encourage me,

Inspire me,

Uplift me,

Tell me:

To fight patriarchy,

Question default heterosexuality,

Love women in a world that rewards masculinity,

That dick-centred sex is a phallacy (tehe),

To be loud, proud and not people-please.

Your belly laugh took me by surprise. Poetry is not my forte, despite willingly attending a poetry group.

Then you read yours, humble at first, before launching into an assured rhythm, and I remember thinking, fuck. I’m sat next to a real poet. I was intimidated.

When we started a second exercise, you attempted to strike up conversation again. But I didn’t trust myself to speak. I smiled, mumbled, stopped and started several times. You were clearly seasoned, and I was plain boiled rice.

Lesbians, lesbians, lesbians. I tried to channel faded memories of teen angst.

She drew blood

And I didn’t mind

As long as I had her

All of the time.

My pen refused to write anything further. People talked over each other, the café’s music speakers crackled, chairs scraped and cups clinked. I closed my eyes and surrendered to my encroaching migraine.

The session drew to a close. I took my time packing away my things, peeking at you from the corner of my eye. I still couldn’t think what to say. You’d moved on, chatting animatedly to the (presumably) cis man on your other side, with a nose ring and a fade. I sighed.

Oz caught my eye, greeting me warmly. They noticed you too, and were intrigued. You’d returned from the café, carefully holding a foamy coconut latte in a teal ceramic cup. The steaming liquid threatened to spill from its perfectly suspended, chocolate-sprinkled edge.

Oz complimented your evidently sweet, calming nature, reflected in your poetry. You were touched. I heard you introduce yourself as ‘Rue’. As you bonded, I felt held hostage. I wanted the humiliation over with. I wanted to retreat to my bed, wrap the duvet over my head, and not face another person for weeks.

It was annoying how easily Oz could talk to you. But I couldn’t bring myself to make a sound. Citing tiredness, I turned away into the night. I left you there at the café, the image of you and your brimming coffee cup echoing like a missed opportunity.

Weeks passed. Your number was added to the group chat. I watched you heart react to people’s poems and respond with the occasional encouraging quip.

I never started a private conversation. I missed the following poetry session. Did you go? Did you remember me? Would you have sat next to me again?

Did you miss me?

I don’t expect to run into you tonight. Oz has dragged me to a queer singles mixer. Them, to avoid their growing feelings for their new (married) friend. Me, to try something new. I’ve pulled so many teeth on the apps, I could retrain as a dentist.

My fit is comfortable grunge, because that’s all I can do. I pair an oversized black t-shirt with ripped denim shorts and flirty pink sneakers. I apply a cheeky flick of eyeliner and eyebrow pencil. I then use the pencil to darken my baby blonde beard.

Oz means business in tight snakeskin trousers and a mesh crop top, his tips freshly frosted. Hari, our supportive poly pal who’s too neck-deep in dates to humiliate himself at such shindigs, snaps several photos and wishes us luck.

We’re confident on the top deck of the bus into town, tipsy on cans of premixed G&T. We joke, reflect and intellectualise our prior dating dramas to avoid the rising terror. But when we rock up to the trendy Northern Quarter bar, I clutch Oz’s arm.

‘I’m scared,’ I whine.

‘Me too,’ they confess.

‘I don’t want to go in.’

‘We have to.’

‘Do we?’

‘Look, you have to go in, otherwise I won’t go in.’

‘Ugh. Fine.’

We stall in the hallway for a few minutes, perusing the noticeboard of small indie bands we’ve never heard of and a calendar of pub quizzes. But eventually, we head for the basement room. We make a pact to split off, with the promise to reconnect after an hour if we’re not having fun.

Digging my bitten nails into Oz’s tattooed forearm, we descend the mildly sticky bar steps into a heavily perfumed, smoky room with a disco ball, neon signs and a tropical theme. Lots of fruity drinks with cocktail umbrellas. I am so not in the mood. But I white-knuckle through the dread and sweep my eyes across the tables.

Immediately, I notice a tangible split across the room. The website said the mixed queer event would be a trans-friendly. Oz and I are dismayed to see the patrons have very obviously divided themselves into ‘men’ on one side, and ‘women’ on the other. We might be the only transgenders in the village.

At the foot of the stairs, the host asks my sexuality. I panic. Pressured by the binary vibe of the room, I decide that tonight, I’m a gay man. The host gives me a blue wristband, and Oz an orange one, who shrugs. I shuffle over to the edge of a table filled with men. Oz is immediately absorbed into a sapphic sorority. Within seconds, they’re laughing and flashing their nail art. I’m alone again.

I perch on the outside for a long while, lost in the swirl of small talk. I can’t focus on any one person or pick out details. People’s faces are in shadow, occasionally illuminated by the spinning disco ball. Pop classics blare from the speakers. There’s a bar at the end of the room, the menu boasting eye-watering prices.

I swivel to the quiet guy sitting next to me. Good-looking, tall, with dark curly hair and startling blue eyes. A peach silk shirt and pressed chinos cling to his broad shoulders and thighs, with a heavy, expensive-looking watch hanging off his wrist. Clean-shaven. Poised. No make-up. I already sense I’m not his type, but I try anyway.

‘Seph,’ I volunteer, holding out my hand. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Jake.’

One syllable. My hand hovers, empty. We’re off to a good start.

‘Hey, Jake. Have you been to one of these before?’

‘No.’

This tooth is rooted deep. I dust off my pliers.

‘Yeah, me neither. How are you finding it so far?’

‘Alright.’

Ouch. One last twist for luck.

‘If you hadn’t come here, what else would you be doing?’

‘Dunno. Rugby, probably.’

The syllables are increasing, but my enthusiasm isn’t.

‘Ah, rugby… you play?’

‘Yeah.’

He wins. I tap out. I hide in the toilet for a few minutes and pray. Please don’t make every conversation as painful as the last one. I make my way to the bar. I ask for a glass of tap water. I trudge back towards my spot at the table.

A new guy is sat in my vacated seat. Short, alt-looking, with a buzzcut and a lip piercing. A fellow trans man? Hard to tell. Anyway, he seems slightly more promising. Mercifully, he’s put himself between me and rugby guy. I can put away my teeth-pulling tools for the time being.

As soon as I sit down next to him, it’s HiI’mAlex, and OhmygodIlovethissong, and heydoyouwatchBuffy?

Sweet relief. Time dissolves as we delve into topic after topic, speedrunning all our common interests. His friend Nina brought him here, like Oz brought me. Talking to Alex is easy, maybe too easy. I worry that it’s more friendly chemistry than romantic, but I’m grateful just to talk to someone and have them talk back.

People come and go, and we retreat to a dark bench in a different corner of the room, away from the blaring speakers. We chat, we laugh, we go deeper – mental health, loneliness, dating the wrong guys, sexual escapades. Alex is very experienced and seems to get off on the thrill of danger. That gives me pause, but I feel safe where I am, and I don’t particularly want to stop talking to him.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the shape of someone near our table, picking up empty glasses to take back to the bar. I look at your face and do a double take. It was only one time, but I’m pretty sure I’ve met you before.

‘I think I know that person,’ I say to Alex, pointing you out. He follows my gaze.

‘Oh yeah, that’s Nina’s friend.’

‘Really? Cool! Rue, I think his – their? – name was?’

‘I’m pretty sure Nina called him Laurence. Knows him from school.’

‘Oh.’

It made sense. I did only meet you that one time. Not enough time to etch your face into intimate memory. But I did spend quite a lot of that time looking.

‘I’m pretty sure Nina wanted to set me up with him tonight,’ Alex continues.

‘Really?’

‘Yeah. Only because she wants me to date someone nice. I told her, I’m not interested in dating. I’m only here to support her.’

‘Right.’

I take a swig of water, my face burning.

Obviously, there’s nothing wrong with supporting a friend at a singles event. Of course not. In a way, I’m sort of doing the same for Oz.

But I’m here. I did the scary social thing. I split off from my friend, broke the ice with someone new. I’ve talked to no-one but Alex for the last hour. Halfway through our conversation, when I was still wondering if we were friendly or flirting, I noticed a cute bear-type sitting at our table. He smiled when I looked his way. I could have talked to him. But it felt like Alex was really into our conversation, and I didn’t have the heart to break it off.

Now I find out he wasn’t even serious. I feel everything we built this evening – or I thought we built – crumble away, as though it never existed. I can’t help but feel annoyed.

‘Can I take your glass?’

I look up. It’s you again, playing bartender. You with the deep brown eyes, and practical ponytail. You’re wearing a different blue shirt, short sleeves now we’re in May, made of a thinner, summery material. A gold chain glints round your neck and wrist, sparkling against your smooth skin.

‘Thank you,’ I say, and seize the heaven-sent opportunity. ‘By the way, I think I know you.’

You nod, smiling slowly as your eyes grow with recognition.

‘Yes! I think I know you too.’

‘From poetry group – Rue, right?’

‘Yes! That’s it! And you’re… Seph?’

You remember me! I beam, feeling the sun part from behind dark clouds.

Alex frowns.

‘I thought your name was Laurence?’

‘Oh – yeah, it is. Nina knows me by that name from when we were at school. But lately, I’ve been going by Rue. Feels bit more gender neutral.”

‘It’s nice,’ I chime in. ‘Like the flower.’

‘Thanks. Hey, do you want one of these drinks?’

You offer me one of two identical brown sugary cocktails.

‘Spiced apple… cinnamon… rum twist, or something like that. It’s happy hour, so I got two.’

‘I’d love one,” I say. I take a sip, managing not to stab my nostril with the little umbrella. It’s strong, sweet and delicious.

You squeeze into the empty space next to me. I shuffle over to make room. Alex is texting on his phone. I try not to ignore him, wanting to honour the time we spent getting to know each other, but he doesn’t seem bothered.

Last time, I met you at a writing session. There, writing was the priority. I wasn’t thinking about romantic intrigue. Okay, maybe I was, but I dismissed it as a fantasy.

What? You’re telling me people really can meet organically? They just bump into each other in the wild, make small talk, and ask for a phone number? Sounds like a scam cooked up by Hollywood.

But here? The point of the evening is romantic connection. Which would normally intimidate me, but I’ve met you before. I already know we have things in common. I already know I find you attractive. Now I know you’re single, and available. Finally, the universe has found a loophole in my rigidity.

The event is coming to an end. Oz approaches us, grinning, a femme on each arm. They’re in their element, and look positively delighted to see Rue again.

‘A few of us are going to Canal Street after this. Wanna come along?’

I look at Rue, who beams back at me.

‘This is becoming quite the night.’

In another twist of fate, it turns out one of the femmes on Oz’s arm is Nina. She looks between me and Rue with a quizzical smile.

Alex joins us on the walk to the gay village, but only until the tram stop, where he announces his work here is done. I give him my phone number and hug him goodbye. Even with the false expectations from earlier, I hope I’ve made a new friend. But I never hear from him again.

And here we are. You and me, at the end of the night. Hours of dancing, drinking, hollering. I’m sweaty and thirsty. I’ve lasted long past my usual social limit. But I need to go home. I’m exhausted. I have work tomorrow. Not an excuse – I really need to leave.

I hug and kiss all my new friends goodbye. I give Oz a big smacker, on their lipstick-stained cheek. There’s a mark on their neck, too. I notice Nina wearing the same shade of red.

You again. You hold out your arms, and I fall against your broad chest. I squeeze and rock you in a long, drawn-out embrace. Avoiding your eyes, I shyly kiss your cheek. It’s a small, affectionate peck, to celebrate us getting on so well.

I’ve barely withdrawn when you pull me back and kiss the corner of my mouth. You may well have been aiming for the centre. But I’m overwhelmed, and exhausted. I really, really need to leave.

I have your Instagram. (You laughed when I told you my handle.) We swap messages over the next few days. This evolves into sharing Reels, and wordplay, and inside jokes. I feel my fondness growing, as well as my courage. Maybe, just maybe, you like me too.

Am I getting my hopes up? Reading too much into things?

‘What if it was just a friendship kiss?’ I agonize to Oz.

‘You’re not friends, Seph,’ they remind me.

They have a point.

The End

Julian is a gay trans man living in Manchester. He writes a mix of realism, magical realism and speculative fiction in the form of novels, screenplays, short stories and poetry.

Instagram: @julenoted

Artwork credit: Coco Jackson @conversewithcoco