Page 3 of Rhymes with Metaphor

“I won’t sleep a wink tonight,” said Martin. “I’ve got to go over the entire evening, analyse everything. Come back to mine.”

“Why?”

“Your place is a tip. My place has coffee.”

“You’ve twisted my arm.”

“What did you think of Juliet?” said Martin.

“Exactly your type.”

“Really? How so?”

“She emits strong headmistress vibes.”

“I beg your pardon?” said Martin.

“I’m quite frankly surprised that her first name isn’t ‘Miss.’ You stand to attention in her vicinity.”

“That’s because I’m keen on her.... Was I too obviously keen?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, thanks,” said Martin. “I’m gutted now. Do you think she noticed?”

“Noticed? Your infatuation is visible from space.”

“Damn,” said Martin. “How can I fix this? Can I fix this? I left early—that’s good. Shows I’m not desperate. She liked the chocolates. I think. Do you think she liked the chocolates? Writers have cachet...but not humourists. I was born in the wrong era. No one takes humour seriously these days.”

Martin’s neurotic monologue continued after they arrived at his place, and Reg made monosyllabic responses, listening with one ear while he made coffee.

After half an hour, Martin said, “You seem strangely calm. Did the party improve your mood? Or is my coffee so good it’s distracting you?”

Reg was experiencing an odd combination of serenity from the coffee, a buzz from the Cold Crash, and an unsettling feeling that he’d forgotten something.

“Did you meet anyone interesting?” said Martin.

“I did, as it happened.”

Reg explained as much of the phenomenon of Flat Mary as could be explained. He took Flat Mary’s card from his pocket.

“Is his name really Flat Mary?”

“He was originally called Steve. Then he discovered music.”

Martin found Flat Mary’s website on his phone. “You can listen to his songs here. If they’re awful, better to find out before you sign a contract with him.”

Music played from Martin’s phone.

“It’s a bit weird,” said Martin.

“What’s the song called?”

“‘Laura Secord’s Suspenders.’ Does he mean sock suspenders? Did Laura Secord wear sock suspenders?”

“Why are you consulting me about Laura Secord’s underthings?” said Reg.

“I don’t know,” said Martin. He played another song. “This one sounds more promising. More relaxing. Less squeaky.”

“Very Zen,” said Reg.

Perhaps overwrought from the excitement of the party, perhaps lulled by the dulcet tones of “Cinnamon Semtex,” they both fell asleep on the living room floor.

––––––––

R eg woke with the mental clarity that comes only from a post-midnight semi-conscious state. He sat bolt upright.

“Martin!”

“...mmm?”

“Martin!” Reg kicked Martin where he lay beside him. “Call Juliet!!”

Martin blinked awake. “What’s happened?”

“We’ve got to go to Juliet’s place! But before we do, you’ve got to call her and stop her from having a shower. Stop everyone in that house from having a shower.”

“Have I lost my mind?” said Martin. “Or have you?”

“No, listen,” said Reg, taking hold of Martin by the shoulders. “I did something in their bathroom at the party.”

“What?”

“Shit.”

“You could have let me assume that.”

“Not that.” Reg explained how he’d ended up in the shower at the party.

“ Why did you write in her shower?”

“I had no choice. Her lipstick broke!”

“What?” Martin looked hard at Reg’s mouth.

“Oh!” said Reg. He fumbled in his pocket for the toilet paper, lifted it out, and arranged it along Martin’s coffee table, poring over it as though it were the Shroud of Turin.

“I can’t make it out,” said Reg. “What does it say?”

Martin squinted. “ Shmwwooo ... blobby ... smear .”

“It’s useless,” said Reg. “The good stuff is in Juliet’s shower, but only if no one runs any water. You must call her. Now.”

“I can’t call her now ,” said Martin. “It’s too soon. I’ll seem needy. I have to play it cool. I have to wait a day at least.”

“We can’t risk leaving it that long. You have to call her. Tell her everything.”

“I will not tell Juliet you need to read the soap scum on her bathroom wall. She’ll think I have a weird friend.”

“You do.”

“I know that, but I’m not ready for her to know that. I need to ease her into it by showing her how normal I am over the course of a couple of weeks at least.”

“Can’t you ease her into it in the next ten minutes, before my ‘Kubla Khan’ dissolves?”

“It’s too soon. She’ll assume I’m weird by proxy.”

“It’s likely she already knows. Her little brother spotted me in the bathroom writing this with her lipstick until it broke.”

“You ruined her lipstick as well? No no no. Wait—are you sure it was Juliet’s lipstick? What if it was the housemate’s?”

“As it wasn’t purple, I think it’s safe to assume it wasn’t Abigail’s.”

“Oh god,” said Martin. “What else did you do?”

“I interfered with her eyebrow pencil.”

“Not sexually?”

“Literarily.”

“Literarily or literally?”

“Both. I was using it to compose deathless verse. Had the opposite problem to the lipstick. It was too hard. Please call her. Tell her everything.”

“No, look. Before I call her, I’ve got to plan out this conversation.

How can I spin this? Tell her you’re subject to fits of derangement because you’re a poet?

It’s plausible because it’s true. It’s fine.

It’ll be fine.” He took a deep breath. “She’ll be miffed about her lipstick, though.

Women can get very territorial over their lipsticks.

I read it in a women’s magazine. Will she find out you destroyed it if I don’t tell her?

Or will her little brother cover for you? ”

“Doubtful. I had a bit of a run-in with him in the kitchen beforehand.”

“Please tell me you weren’t rude to him.”

“Well...”

“What did you do?”

“I thought he was drinking alcohol, so I confiscated his drink.”

“You fucking idiot,” said Martin. He put his head in his hands. “He’s going to tell her about the lipstick, isn’t he?”

“I expect so.”

“How can I make this right?” Martin pushed the hair out of his face.

“I know—you’ll replace her lipstick and her eyebrow pencil—no, you’ll buy her a new luxury make-up set.

” Martin got up and switched on his laptop.

“You’ll put this on your credit card, and it’s got to be delivered tomorrow. Give me that toilet paper.”

“In god’s name why?”

“So I can match the colour. Women are particular about these things. I read it in a women’s magazine.”

Twenty minutes later, the deed was done.

“Will you call her now?” said Reg.

“What should I say: ‘Please read your shower’?”

“That won’t do,” said Reg. “She won’t know where to look. I’ll have to go over there and look myself.”

“We can’t barge in this early.”

“It’s the perfect time. You can catch her in her dressing gown, angle to get a snog off her while I’m upstairs.”

After an obsequious telephone call to Juliet from Martin, they attempted to make themselves presentable.

Reg borrowed Martin’s striped blazer. “How do I look?”

“Like a dishevelled, ’80s-era Ford Prefect.”

“Spiffing.”

On the way to Juliet’s, Martin attempted to sound cool.

“I can salvage this. I can spin my friendship with you as being like...an act of charity. Helping a wayward eccentric. I wish you looked less notorious. Don’t you think you should get a haircut?

I mean, before your bangs get long enough to throw over your shoulder? What are you doing?”

Reg was rifling Martin’s glove box. “I need something to write on...and something to write with. Ah!” He pulled out a minigolf pencil and a Chinese takeaway menu. “You should tidy up in there, Martin.”

“Glass houses and stones, Reg.”

Martin was upset that none of the nearby florists was open, but he handed Reg his phone and made him place an order.

“What kind do you want?” said Reg.

“Whatever kind says, ‘I’m sorry my friend is an ass.’ You might as well put that on the card.”

Martin found a place to park just outside Juliet’s house.

Juliet wasn’t wearing a dressing gown when she answered the door, though she wasn’t wearing make-up either. Her hair was pulled back, but it wasn’t neatly combed.

“Hello, Juliet. Goodbye, Juliet,” said Reg, making a beeline for the stairs.

“While you’re up there, apologize to Juliet’s brother,” Martin called after him.

As he barged upstairs, Reg heard Martin effusively apologizing to Juliet. The bathroom was, thankfully, unoccupied. Reg opened the shower door and went in, pulling the Chinese menu and pencil out of his breast pocket.

As he couldn’t remember where on the shower wall he’d made his etchings, he pored over every inch of the glass, swearing under his breath all the while.

He eventually found what was left of his genius under the soap ledge, where the scum was thickest. But it was only legible if you already knew what it said.

Which Reg didn’t. He never remembered his best lines—the ones that came specifically when he wasn’t ready to receive them and slipped through his fingers like minnows. All he could make out was “ginger ale.”

“Spiffing,” Reg hissed.

After ten more minutes of trying fruitlessly to translate his little grooves into words, he conceded defeat. On his way back to the stairs, he passed a bedroom door, slightly ajar. He pushed it open, tapping it lightly as he did.

The room was sparsely appointed and almost offensively immaculate.

It looked like no one lived here—sterile and cool and containing nothing organic, apart from the granola on the desk, which was floating in a bowl of what was presumably nut milk, because that’s what people who ate granola generally inflicted upon themselves.

This was apparently Joel’s bedroom, as he was sitting in it, still wearing pyjamas, though he had changed into navy blue ones.

He was situated at a desk, staring at a laptop screen.

His posture, of course, was perfect, but he seemed strained and tense.

That he was working at all made Reg resentful, as he’d been unable to write for weeks and had nothing to show for his little burst of genius the night before.

Joel turned and stared at him. He looked younger than Reg remembered, yet simultaneously more worn out, the bags under his eyes like dark bruises in his anaemic skin. He exhibited no surprise at seeing Reg, though he did seem annoyed.

“I don’t suppose you had a shower just now, did you?” said Reg.

“Last night,” said Joel. “Why?” That surprisingly big voice again, roughened by exhaustion.

“Did you happen to see any writing on the shower wall while you were in there? Under the soap ledge?”

“What?”

“It’s extremely important. Did you, while you were rinsing away my genius , happen to read what it said?”

“Why would there be anything written in the shower?” said Joel.

“Because I put it there.”

“If you wrote it, then you know what it said, so why are you asking me?” said Joel. “You’re not making any sense.”

“I am making perfect sense. You’re the one who’s being obtuse. Everything I do has a perfectly reasonable reason.”

“What were you doing with my sister’s lipstick last night?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“You said that last night,” said Joel. “Try me.”

“I’m a poet.”

Most people Reg met were impressed when he told them he was a poet. Not Joel, apparently.

“And?”

Reg sighed. “I said you wouldn’t understand. Get some sleep.”

“I have.”

“Your bed doesn’t look slept in.”

“I can’t say the same for your clothes,” said Joel.

“Says the boy who’s wearing pyjamas.”

“They’re scrubs,” said Joel.

“And do you do much scrubbing in them?” said Reg.

“Scrubs are what doctors wear.”

“Jumping the gun, aren’t you?” said Reg. “You’re a student.”

“Dress for the job you want,” said Joel.

“Which job do you think I want? Or were you giving me career advice?”

Joel blinked at him. “I don’t give unsolicited advice, but based on what you’re wearing, I’d say your chosen profession was hermit.”

He didn’t say “hermit” like he meant it as an insult, more as a statement of fact, which made it somehow more insulting.

“Big words from a boy who rinsed my genius down the drain,” said Reg.

“I’m eighteen,” said Joel. “And I’m trying to study for my MCAT. Close my door on your way out, please.” He turned back to his laptop, dismissing Reg.

––––––––

A s Martin was driving Reg home, he said, “That went well. How was Juliet’s little brother?”

“You mean New Bug.”

“Who?”

“Her kid brother,” said Reg. “He’s like the New Bugs at school. The ones who arrive on Day One acting like they know everything. The little sod.”

“Hit it off with him, did you?”

“He called me a hermit.”

“He’s perceptive. I’ll give him that.”

“I hate him,” said Reg.

“Could you hate him with a deep and abiding tolerance? At least till I’m more established with Juliet?”

“ Hmmph ,” said Reg. “Why are you looking so pleased with yourself?”

“In spite of that production of yours, Juliet has agreed to go on a proper date with me. I asked her to come to the park for ice cream.”

“Don’t go berserk.”

“Berserk would be buying her a power tool.”

“Afraid she’ll put up a shelf?” said Reg.

“You can’t spoil my good mood, but bravo for trying.”

Martin dropped Reg at his loft and left to get ready for his date.

Once inside, Reg looked at himself searchingly in the mirror on the back of the door.

He was used to being given deference right out of the gate based on his height, his looks, his class, and the accent he refused to let go of.

Encountering someone who was unimpressed with all of it, as Joel was, unnerved him.

If nothing about Reg impressed Joel, then what did?

Reg saw in the mirror someone who looked old for his age, someone whose face had filled in in the past few years and now looked indolent. Well, he was indolent. What of it?

On the brick wall of his living room was a framed sketch Reg had made of Flip’s racket hand, sporting the platinum bracelet he’d commissioned for him on the first anniversary of their relationship.

The bracelet was shaped like a cobra biting its tail, in honour of Flip’s fast backhand.

The hood of the cobra was designed to resemble a tennis racket.

The snake had an amethyst chip for one eye and an emerald for the other. Wimbledon colours.

The rest of the walls in Reg’s loft, apart from where his BFA in Creative Writing hung in the study, were bare brick, and Reg had developed a habit of jotting notes on them in chalk.

He didn’t want to interrupt his flow by hunting for a pen and paper, and as he usually couldn’t find pens or blank paper in his loft, every wall of his loft had a piece of chalk lying beside it, and nearly every brick within reach bore his scrawled words.

Reg picked up a piece of neon orange chalk lying on the floor and wrote on a bare patch of brick under the sketch of Flip’s hand: Dress for the hermit you want: Scrubs.