Page 1 of Rhymes with Metaphor

M artin drove out of the underground parking garage of Reg’s building and up into the sunlight. Beside him, Reg winced, shielding his eyes with his forearm.

“I’ve been calling you all week,” said Martin. “I thought I’d find you dead.”

Despite having a shower at Martin’s insistence (as Reg had reportedly smelled “like the primate house at a zoo”), Reg felt like he’d been exhumed. He flipped the sun visor down and fumbled in his pockets for a cigarette and lighter. “Time?”

“Six,” said Martin.

“Morning or evening?”

“Evening. Jesus, Reg, when did you last go outside?”

“What day?”

“Saturday.” Martin glanced at him. “The twenty-ninth.”

“Month?”

“March. And if you ask me what year it is, I’ll have you sectioned.”

“Well,” said Reg, lighting his cigarette and taking a massive drag, “I won’t ask, then.”

Martin pointedly lowered the passenger side window. “You need to be on your best behaviour.”

“Why? Where are we going?”

“Juliet’s birthday party. I left a message on your voicemail about it a week ago. And three days ago. And yesterday.”

“Who’s Juliet?”

“The girl I met last month at the grad student mixer that you were too hung-over to attend. The one who’s doing her doctorate in clinical psychology.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“Juliet. Juliet Pettifer.”

“Pettifer, rhymes with metaphor?”

“Not quite.”

“Poetic licence. Anyway, I’ve never heard of her.”

“Yes, you have. I’ve told you all about her. She’s invited me to her party tonight.”

“So why is my presence necessary? Clearly, you want to get off with her. You don’t need my help for that.”

“When she invited me, she said I could bring someone, I assume to find out if I’m seeing anyone.”

“You could just tell her you’re single.”

“I can’t do that,” said Martin. “That would dispel the air of mystery I’ve been cultivating. Women love a man with an air of mystery—I read that in a women’s magazine.”

“Ah, the source of all wisdom.”

“Stop it, Reg. If I bring another man to this party, I’ll be letting her know I’m single without coming right out and saying it. That’s why I’m bringing you.”

“Why me in particular?”

“You’re my most presentable friend...sometimes. And you’re the only one of my friends who I know won’t take a fancy to her.”

“There’s that.” Reg took a second drag on his cigarette.

“How’s the thesis coming along?” said Martin.

“Fuck off.”

“That well?”

Reg shot him a withering look. “You wouldn’t be so flippant if you had writer’s block.”

“Is that what you’re calling it?” said Martin. “I thought it was common indolence.”

“You don’t understand.”

“Enlighten me.”

“It entails believing every piece of writing in the world, including my own, is shit. You see that writing over there?”

“ Community Safety Zone. Fines Increased.”

“It’s shit. How did that get published?”

“It’s a street sign,” said Martin.

“It’s shit .”

“You could write a poem about that,” said Martin. “‘Shit’ by Reginald Fieldfare. First stanza: ‘Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.’ The meter’s perfect, and, as a bonus, it rhymes. And if the reviewers call it shit, you can have them for plagiarism.”

When Reg didn’t respond, Martin looked at him. “Cheer up, Reg. Spring’s here. The sun’s still up, the birds are singing—”

“The grass is yellow. The trees are bare. It’s bleak as shit.”

“Spreading the nihilism on a bit thick, aren’t you?” said Martin.

“What if I never write again? What if I peaked three years ago?”

“Poets don’t peak. They die.”

“I am dead. Dead inside. Yet, here I am. What if ‘used to be a poet’ is my entire identity now?”

“Funnily enough,” said Martin, “I’ve never had writer’s block. It’s strange. I sit down to write, and the words just flow effortlessly out of me.”

“If our lifeboat were adrift in the Atlantic, I would eat you without compunction.”

“Steady on. I’m trying to identify the root of your problem.”

“Well, don’t. You’re my best friend. You’re supposed to listen to me moan, buy me a drink, and say, ‘There, there, Reg. You’ll come out of this funk a better writer. You’re a genius. A gift to the world of verse.’”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” said Martin. “I’ll give you a ‘There, there.’”

“Thanks, I suppose.”

“What do you think the problem is?”

“I need a muse,” said Reg, surprising himself.

“I’m not sure this party runs to muses. You’ll have to settle for drinks.”

Martin found a place to park on the street. He pulled a box wrapped in shiny, crinkly paper from the back seat and checked himself in the rearview mirror, smoothing his hair back.

“How do I look?”

“What do you want me to say?” said Reg.

“Be honest.”

“You want to know if I’d shag you?”

“Do you think Juliet might?”

“Depends on her taste. Is she the sort of girl who likes a big nose?”

“No, look,” said Martin, “you’re supposed to say, ‘You look incredible.’”

“I wouldn’t go that far. You look passable.”

“I thought mentioning to Juliet that Lexi fancies me may lend me some cachet.”

“Leaving aside that Lexi’s nine and your cousin, why would that lend you any cachet?”

“Apparently, women are more attracted to a man if another woman already fancies him. I read it in a women’s magazine.”

“It must be true, then. What if other men find the man attractive? I could flirt with you at the party if it would help.”

Martin sighed. “Please don’t embarrass me tonight.”

“I’ll try,” said Reg. “How do I look?”

Martin had rousted him out of his loft so hastily that he hadn’t had time to dress properly.

He wore a white button-down shirt (lightly crumpled), a cream linen suit jacket (deeply crumpled), striped Edwardian trousers (egregiously crumpled), and an emerald silk scarf, fastened with a gold and amethyst tie pin.

“Socks?” said Martin.

“Socks are a put-on,” said Reg.

“Yes. One puts them on.”

“I couldn’t find a matching pair. How do I look otherwise?”

“Foppish and unkempt.”

“Perfect.” Reg fumbled in his pockets. “Phone.”

“You won’t need to call an Uber. I’ll drive you home after the party.”

“Not fancying your chances of staying the night?”

“Juliet’s not that sort of woman,” said Martin. “You’ll see. For god’s sake, put out that cigarette.”

––––––––

“T hat’s hers,” said Martin as they approached a yellow brick house with a blue roof and red trim.

“Mortgage or lease?”

Martin sighed impatiently. “She’s a student. Don’t say it.”

“I haven’t said anything.”

“You were about to. She’s nothing like Egregria.”

“So, what did you get her?” Reg eyed the present in Martin’s hand. “I hope not a first edition of Rebecca . You wouldn’t want to give her any ideas.”

“They’re liqueur chocolates.”

“Nicely impersonal. Have they got absinthe in them?”

“No.”

“Why not? Is she prudish?”

“Please, Reg. I really like her.”

They climbed the front steps, and Martin rapped on the door. The door was opened a minute later by a tall woman with dark blond hair in a high ponytail, dressed in a black business casual suit. Reg immediately revised his impression of what sort of party this was.

“Hello, Juliet,” said Martin.

“Hello, Martin,” she said. She sized them both up before admitting them.

Martin kissed Juliet’s cheek. Her eyes widened a touch, and Martin blushed. “This is my best friend, Reg.”

“Hello, Reg.” She gave him an unexpectedly firm handshake.

Reg got the distinct impression she thought he ought to stand up straighter.

Reg had affected a fashionable slouch for so long in his persona as tortured artist that standing up straight for long periods required tremendous energy and incentive on his part.

He currently possessed neither. In response to Juliet’s gaze, he slouched even more.

“Happy...birthday,” said Martin, handing her the present.

Reg knew Martin well enough to know he’d nearly said “Happy Christmas.” He was clearly besotted. Reg almost pitied him.

Juliet shut the door behind them. “Come in.”

They followed her into the kitchen. Considering a party was supposed to be going on, the house was remarkably quiet.

“What can I get you to drink?” she said.

“Whatever you’re having,” said Martin.

“Prosecco, it is.” Juliet filled a glass and handed it to him. “Reg?”

“Coffee, please.”

“Instant all right?” said Juliet, opening a cupboard.

Reg winced, and Martin mouthed, Don’t .

“Instant’s fine,” said Reg.

Juliet filled the kettle. “How did you two meet?”

“Our friendship has been in the family for three generations,” said Reg.

“Our grandfathers were best friends,” said Martin. “And our fathers after them. And Reg and I have known each other since the womb—separate wombs, obviously.”

“You must have some interesting stories about Martin,” said Juliet to Reg.

“Oh, yes,” said Reg. “Once—”

“Another time,” said Martin warningly.

While they waited for the kettle to boil, Juliet opened Martin’s present. “Chocolates! How sweet, Martin!” Juliet kissed Martin on the cheek.

“That’s all right, then,” Martin muttered, blushing furiously.

“Small party?” said Reg.

“No,” said Juliet. “They’re being considerate.” She said to Martin, “Joel’s studying for his MCAT, and I promised we wouldn’t disturb him.”

The kettle whistled, and Juliet made the coffee. “Cream or sugar, Reg?”

“I take it neat, thanks,” said Reg.

Juliet had that carefully made up no-make-up look. As she handed Reg his coffee, he noticed she was wearing clear nail polish as well.

In the living room, they were introduced to eight of Juliet’s friends and colleagues, all from the Psychology Department, all wearing socks. A definite whiff of careening-towards-middle-age emanated from them all, and it sent a shudder through Reg.