Page 2 of Rhymes with Metaphor

After enduring a few minutes of probing questions, making Reg feel as if he were about to be alienized, he caught a whiff of cigarette smoke coming from the vicinity of the open back door.

He excused himself and went off to investigate.

The back door led to a porch of grey, stressed wood, hung with sun catchers.

Here, he met Abigail, Juliet’s housemate.

After introducing themselves, Reg begged a cigarette off her, and they leaned side by side against the porch railing.

Abigail had orange and blond braids and wore violet contacts, which matched her lipstick.

“How do you know Juliet?” said Abigail.

“I don’t. I’m crashing her party.” Reg sipped his coffee and winced. Rancid, as expected.

“You want a real drink?” said Abigail.

“Juliet said there was only instant.”

“A drink drink,” said Abigail. “I invented this cocktail—Cold Crash. It’ll wake the fuck out of you.”

“What’s in it?”

“Secret formula,” said Abigail, winking. Her eyeshadow was purplish blue, like the inside of a black dog’s ear.

“Later, perhaps,” said Reg.

They smoked for a while in amiable silence, broken by the periodic, subdued laughter of Juliet’s friends. The air was unaccountably mild for March, but the dead grass and black trees made the evening feel like summer with the tablecloth pulled out from under it.

“What do you do?” said Abigail.

“Sweet fuck-all at the moment,” said Reg. “I used to write poetry.”

“I could tell you weren’t one of Juliet’s friends.”

Reg blew out a plume of smoke. “No.”

After a long pause, Abigail said, “Are you bi?”

“Afraid not.”

Abigail contemplated the end of her cigarette, looking mildly disappointed.

Inside the house, Martin was laughing in that goose-honk way he had when he was attempting to flirt with someone.

Reg finished his awful coffee. “Time for a top-up.”

He went back to the kitchen, only to find someone already there, looking inside the freezer.

The someone was wearing what looked like military green pyjamas—loose trousers with a drawstring and a short-sleeved, vee-necked top over a white T-shirt, all looking freshly ironed.

The person in question shut the freezer door, revealing his face.

He looked too young to be at an adult’s party.

He was slight and pale and had dark brown hair, and he was holding a glass of light yellow liquid that clinked with ice.

“Sorry, sonny, you’re too young for that,” said Reg, lifting the glass out of the boy’s hand.

It was something a prefect at Reg’s old boarding school would have done.

He didn’t know why he did it, except that he wasn’t used to being around people that much younger than he was, and perhaps he thought that seniority lent him the authority to issue a reprimand.

The boy blinked at him. “It’s ginger ale.” He had a calm and pleasant voice, deeper than Reg expected from a boy of his apparent age.

Reg sniffed the drink. In the boy’s defence, it did smell of ginger ale. “I’ll overlook it this once.” He proffered the glass.

“I don’t want it now,” said the boy. “You put your nose in it.” And he walked out of the kitchen, leaving Reg feeling like he was the one who’d been told off.

Abigail entered the kitchen. “There you are. Want to help with the cake?” She opened the fridge, took out a large, white cake, and handed Reg a box of birthday candles.

“I didn’t know they were letting kids into this party,” said Reg.

“What kid?” said Abigail.

“The one in the green pyjamas. I assume someone brought him.”

“That’s Juliet’s little brother, Joel.”

“How old is he? Twelve?”

“Eighteen. He’s a first year in pre-med.”

“Why did Juliet bring him?”

“He lives here,” said Abigail. She lit the candles with her cigarette lighter, then counted them. “...twenty-two, twenty-three. Should I stick another one in and give her a conniption?”

“Is she liable to connipt?” said Reg distractedly.

“Let’s find out.” Abigail inserted another candle. “You bring it in. I’ll get the plates and forks.”

Reg carried the cake, and Abigail followed him, singing “Happy Birthday.” Reg set the cake on the dining room table, and everyone joined in the singing, Reg last of all, after Martin elbowed him.

Juliet did not have a conniption, but she did extract the extra candle.

The cake was cut, and pieces were handed round.

It was a bland, grocery store cake that attempted to pass as vanilla solely on the basis of being white, not because it had any actual flavour.

Reg set his plate down, closed his eyes, and remembered the soft slap of the freezer door shutting and that kid looking at him.

A door opened inside Reg, and words that had been evading him for months came flooding out.

Words that were decidedly not shit. They were, in fact, fucking brilliant.

He shot out of his chair, frisking himself for his phone.

But he had left it at home. That, and his little Moleskine notebook—his portable brain—and, of course, his pen.

He looked frantically at Martin, but he was deeply absorbed in conversation with Juliet.

Reg rushed into the kitchen, reciting the words in his head so he wouldn’t lose them.

Kitchen. Everyone’s kitchens had paper and pens for writing lists.

Except for this kitchen. This kitchen featured magnetic fridge poetry, which mocked him.

He went upstairs looking for some sort of implement to write with and found himself at the end of a long hallway with an open door in front of him.

Bathroom. Paper! He grasped the end of the toilet roll and pulled it out along the top of the vanity. Pen? Something to write with. Anything. Hurry. Before the words go.

Vanity. Drawers. Open. Shut. Open. Shut. Open. Aha! Pencil...eyebrow pencil. Close enough.

He wrote down the words tumbling out of his head. The toilet paper tore instantly. He swore, rummaged in the vanity drawer, and found a golden tube. Lipstick! His attempt to form a single letter ended when the beige stick bent in the middle, leaving a large smudge on the toilet paper.

Fuck.

Reg looked wildly around. Shower stall. He stepped inside.

The glass walls of the stall were opaque with soap scum.

He scraped it with his thumbnail, leaving a line.

It would do. He scored the scum hastily.

Little shavings curled off, landing on the shower floor.

The delay had proved disastrous. The words were dissipating faster than he could inscribe them in scum.

He was able to catch and hold only a precious few before he was left empty and bereft.

He waited for more, like waiting for a vomit encore, but despite vigorous, mental retching, nothing came up.

Just as he had been before the party, he was blocked.

A quiet tapping sounded on the bathroom door.

“Just a minute,” said Reg. He stepped out of the shower and opened the door.

Joel stood in the hallway. “The guest bathroom is downstairs.”

Again, Reg felt like he’d been reprimanded. Which, given Reg was six years older and at least five inches taller, was ridiculous.

“It was an emergency,” said Reg.

“You didn’t wash your hands,” said Joel.

“I didn’t need to.”

Joel looked past Reg at the unrolled, torn toilet paper accordioned across the vanity. “I see.”

“You wouldn’t understand,” said Reg. He gathered up the toilet paper, wound it carefully, and stuck it in his trouser pocket. “I was blocked.”

“How much fibre have you been eating?”

“Reg!” Abigail shouted excitedly from downstairs. “Where are you?”

“Up here!” said Reg.

“You’ve got to come and meet Flat Mary!”

“Flat Mary is waiting,” said Reg to Joel.

It was clear from Joel’s expression that he, like Reg, didn’t know what the fuck that meant.

Reg made for the stairs, Joel stepping back neatly so that Reg didn’t touch him as he passed. At the head of the stairs, Reg glanced over his shoulder. Joel was still standing in the hallway, looking at him.

Flat Mary, as it happened, was a newly arrived party guest and friend of Abigail’s. He had a respectable track record, apparently, composing electronic music. The reason Abigail was so excited to introduce him to Reg was because Flat Mary had read Reg’s poetry chapbook, Player .

Reg’s hand was engulfed by Flat Mary’s, which had the texture of a raw ciabatta dough.

“Pleasure,” said Flat Mary, with a DJ-smooth voice. “Your chapbook is some pretty ero shit.”

“Ero?”

“Erotic, man.”

“Oh,” said Reg. “Right.”

“Has anyone ever set your poetry to music?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“I’d like to use your lyrics,” said Flat Mary. “Assuming you’re okay with that.”

“Isn’t that a great opportunity, Reg?” said Abigail.

“Look,” said Reg, “I’m really not sure. I’d need to listen to your music first and see if it’s suitable.”

“I get it,” said Flat Mary. “Make sure our brands mesh. You’re welcome to be part of the process. I could compose something from your new material. What have you got in the works?”

“Various things,” said Reg.

Flat Mary took a card out of his wallet and slipped it into Reg’s pocket. “My music’s on my website. Maybe it’ll inspire you.”

He sounded so much like an ad that Reg found himself suppressing a laugh and tried to disguise it as a cough. Abigail, who’d absented herself after the introductions, returned with a drink, which she pressed into Reg’s hand.

“Cold Crash,” she said, by way of explanation.

The glass was bone-chillingly cold, and it contained a liquid that was alternately clear and billowing white, with small, purple spheres bobbing in it.

“Are those fish eggs?” said Reg.

“Ribena ice balls,” said Abigail.

Reg sipped it cautiously and tasted kirsch and cream. As he held the glass, the purple spheres began to melt, pinking the cream.

Juliet brought Joel downstairs and settled him on the couch with a plate of cake on his lap. Reg overheard her say, “You’ve been studying for twelve hours straight. You need a break.”

Whatever Joel thought of that, he’d brought a textbook with him, and as soon as Juliet left, he began reading it, looking out of place amidst the party guests.

Periodically, he stopped reading to stare into space with a dazed expression.

Watching him gave Reg an itchy feeling between his shoulder blades.

Flat Mary went on talking about his music, unconcerned that Reg’s responses now amounted to monosyllables.

Just then, Martin tugged on Reg’s elbow and said, “Time to call it a night.”

He pulled Reg after him, following Juliet to the front door.

“Thanks again for the chocolates, Martin,” said Juliet.

Martin put his hands in his pockets and rattled his keys. “Yes, well. Happy birthday, Juliet.” He put out his hand, and she shook it.

“Right...that’s us, then.” Martin elbowed Reg.

“Nice meeting you,” said Reg. He handed Juliet his empty glass.

Martin pulled Reg along to his car.

“I’m not complaining,” said Reg, “but why did you want to go now? I thought you were keen on her.”

“Always be the one to initiate leaving, so as not to seem desperate. I read it in a women’s magazine.”