The Last House on Needless Street Catriona Ward (classic book list .txt) 📖

and his pupils go small. Mammals all look the same when they’re angry. ‘Listen, buddy—’

‘Kidding,’ I say quickly. ‘Gotcha, buddy. Um, do you sell dresses? Like, maybe in different colours? Maybe blue?’

‘We sell outdoor gear,’ he says, giving me a long hard look. I have messed up bad, it seems. He fetches clothes from the rails in silence. I don’t wait to try them on; I throw the dollars on the counter and go.

I get to the place early and take a seat at the bar. On either side of me are big guys who drive for a living, wearing trucker hats or leather. In my new clothes I look like one of them, which is why I picked this place. It’s good to blend in.

The bar is just off the highway, with long benches out back. They do barbecue. I thought it would be good because it’s been so hot lately. They put lights in the trees and it’s pretty. Women like stuff like that. But I see quickly that it is the wrong place to meet her. It’s raining tonight – a hot miserable thunderstorm. Everyone has been forced inside. And without the benches, the warm evening, the lights in the trees, this place looks very different. It’s quiet apart from the occasional belch. There’s no music, the fluorescents overhead are aching bright, casting glare on the aluminium tables which are littered with empty glasses and beer cans. The linoleum floor is slick with the tracks of muddy boots. I thought it was, you know, atmospheric, but now I see that it’s not nice.

I order a boilermaker. There’s a mirror behind the bar, which is another reason I chose this place and this particular seat. I can see the door perfectly.

She comes in, fresh with rain. I recognise her straight away. She looks just like her picture. Butter-yellow hair, kind blue eyes. She looks around and I see the place even more clearly, through her eyes. She’s the only woman in here. There’s a smell too, I hadn’t noticed before. Kind of like a hamster cage that needs changing – or a mouse cage, perhaps. (No. Don’t think of that.)

She goes to an aluminium table and sits. So she’s optimistic or maybe desperate. I wondered if she’d leave straight away, when she saw that the guy with the white smile from the stock photo wasn’t waiting for her. (I don’t use my own picture; I learned that lesson quickly. I found mine on the website of some accounting firm. The man is pretending to sign a document, but also looking at the camera and smiling with big white teeth.) She orders something from the tired waitress. Club soda. Optimistic with common sense. Her hair falls, hiding her face in a creamy swing of blonde. And she’s wearing a blue dress. Sometimes they come in jeans or check shirts, which isn’t what I want. But this woman has done the right thing. It doesn’t float, exactly, the dress, it’s not organza, but made of some thicker fabric like corduroy or denim and she’s wearing boots not sandals. But it’s close enough.

I set it up carefully as we exchanged messages. I talked about that album by that woman, that singer – it’s called Blue. It was my favourite album, I told her. And I loved the colour, because it was the colour of my daughter’s eyes. When the talk got warmer between us I told her it was also because it was the colour of her own eyes. Like a calm, kind sea, I wrote. I was just telling the truth, they are nice eyes. She liked it, of course.

‘Why don’t we come dressed in blue when we meet?’ I wrote then. ‘So we can recognise each other.’ She thought it was a great idea.

My flannel shirt is brown and yellow. I’ve got a green cap on. Even my jeans are brown. My new clothes are itchy but at least they don’t have my name on! I couldn’t stand the idea of her doing what the first one did – come in, take one look at me and walk out again. So I’m cheating. I feel bad about it. But I’ll explain when I go over there, in just a second. Just like I’ll explain that what I really need is a friend, not a date. I’ll apologise and we’ll laugh about it. Or maybe we won’t. My head pounds with the stress of it all.

She looks at her phone. She thinks I’m not coming. Or rather that the man with the white teeth isn’t coming. But she waits because it hasn’t been twenty minutes yet, and you always give a late person twenty minutes, that’s universal. And because hope is always the last thing to die. Or maybe she’s just warming up before heading back out into the driving rain. She sips the club soda with a grimace. Not her usual drink. I order another boilermaker. Nearly time to go over there, I tell myself. I just need this one last drink, for courage.

After thirty-five minutes exactly she gets up. Her eyes are small with disappointment. I feel awful, having made her so sad. I mean to get up and stop her but somehow it doesn’t happen. I watch in the mirror as she winds a blue silky thing around her neck. It’s too narrow for a scarf, more like a ribbon or a necktie. She puts a five-dollar bill down on the table and goes. Her movements are decisive and she walks fast. She heads out into the vertical spears of rain.

The moment the door closes behind her, it’s as if I’m released. I throw my drink down my throat, put my jacket on and follow. I’m so sorry I left her alone like that, let my nerves get the better of me. I want to make it right. I hurry, slipping on the wet linoleum. I mustn’t let her get away. I can explain and she’ll understand,