June, Reimagined (55)

Finally, Matt broke. “First of all, flannel should have died in the nineties with Kurt Cobain. Second of all, carpet in pubs is definitely a health-code violation. And third of all, lukewarm brown water isn’t fucking coffee. It’s sewer water. I’d rather drink tea. And I hate tea.”

Finally, a glimpse of raw honesty, the first June had seen from Matt in two days. She linked arms with him as they walked toward the train station. “Just because I like it here, doesn’t mean you have to.”

“I’m just surprised you like it as much as you do.”

“Why?”

“You hate rain.”

“I don’t hate rain.”

“In high school when it rained, you made me drop you off at the front door of the school so your hair wouldn’t get all messed up.”

“That was a teen insecurity issue, not the weather.”

“And the clothes.”

“What about them?”

“Forget about the fucking tartan obsession. Track suits and soccer jerseys?”

“Football jerseys.”

“Look.” Matt took both of June’s hands. “I get the charm of this place. It’s very Tolkien Shire-like.”

“You’re such a nerd.”

“It’s true,” Matt said. “Everyone wants to live in the Shire because it’s quaint and charming and there are small people smoking weed and drinking beer and they all look so happy. And then you realize the reason they drink and smoke weed is because they’re bored. And they’re bored because they’re so far removed from the rest of the world and all anyone really wants is to be Frodo or Sam and get the fuck out of the Shire. Not to mention the inbred nature that makes them small, with disproportionately hairy feet. You really want that for your children?”

“You’re ridiculous.” June laughed.

“I just think you like it so much because you don’t know any better. When we see Paris, you’ll feel differently.”

June swallowed her response, not wanting another fight, but Matt’s condescension was clear, and it grated on her. “Let’s head this way.” She pulled him toward a row of shops.

“You’re so predictable.” Matt smiled. “You just can’t resist a tacky souvenir shop, can you?”

“You need tartan underwear to match your balmoral cap.”

Matt wrapped his arm around June’s shoulders as they walked. “I wonder if they have tartan thongs.”

And with that, she forcefully held her frustration at bay. She found the tackiest shop on Academy Street, its exterior draped in plaid and Scottish flags, displaying postcards of sheep and men with flipped kilts mooning the camera. Inside, the store smelled like cheap plastic and cigarettes. June scanned shelf after shelf of spoons, plates, snow globes, calendars, stuffed animals, and fluorescent T-shirts individually wrapped in plastic. There were three more racks of postcards. June spun the circular stand, examining the images.

Matt picked up a figurine of Mel Gibson as William Wallace, its face painted blue.

“Even that’s too tacky for me,” June said. She pulled a red-and-blue-patterned scarf from a rack and wrapped it around Matt’s neck.

“But is it tacky enough?”

“You’re too hot for tacky. You can’t pull it off.”

Matt took the scarf from his neck and wrapped it around June’s waist, pulling her into him. “You think I’m hot?”

Their hips touched. June shoved him away before she got uncomfortable. “As if you need another girl telling you that. I’ve smelled your morning breath. It’s the great equalizer.”

Matt cupped his hand in front of his mouth and checked his breath. “Smells fine to me.”

June moved to another part of the store. She breathed. Moments like that threw her off most. The touching. The flirting.

She picked up a stuffed Nessie, the Loch Ness monster. “Found mine.”

She made her way to the cashier, but Matt intercepted her. “Are you going to get the scarf?” He took Nessie out of her hands and placed it on a shelf. “I have a better idea.” He dragged June out of the store.

June almost tripped keeping up. “What are we doing?”

Matt came to a stop a few storefronts down. “This is the souvenir we should get.”

A sign welcomed walk-ins and tourists: THISTLE DO NICELY TATTOO AND PIERCINGS. Displayed in the window were illustrations of Chinese symbols, dragons, fairies, and, of course, thistles.

“You can’t be serious, Matty.”

“Dead serious.”

“But you don’t even like tattoos.”

“That’s not true,” he said. “I don’t like some tattoos. Barbed wire. Angel’s wings. Tributes to dead grandparents. And recently, Celtic crosses. But we wouldn’t do that.” June watched the man inside working on a client. She heard the buzzing of the needle. “It’s a souvenir we can’t lose or break. Every time we look at our tattoos, we remember our first trip abroad together.”

So much of that sat sourly with June. For starters, the word “trip.” It meant a stumble, a break, a gap in real life. Spring break in Cancun. Florida to vacation with her grandparents. Scotland may have begun that way, but it wasn’t just a mere gap anymore. And why did Matt seem hell-bent on claiming it? He was a visitor, not a traveling companion. “Why would you want a permanent reminder of Scotland? You don’t even like it here.”