Queenie(11)

“Do you have a lot of guests?” the one who I’d now deduced was Lizzie checked. “We don’t like visitors.”

“Do you cook a lot?” Sarah asked me. “We don’t like a lot of . . . fragrant foods. The smell hangs in the fabrics.”

“Do you keep yourself to yourself?” Lizzie folded her arms. “Sarah and I very much keep ourselves to ourselves.”

“Do you shave?” Sarah asked. “It’s just that we have a very delicate drainage system that can’t really cope with thick hairs.” That question felt pretty personal.

“I just need a room because me and my boyfriend are on a break, and I’m sorry to be dramatic, but if I have to look at another house I’ll honestly kill myself!” I exploded, and they both jumped in their seats.

“Oh no, sorry to hear that,” Lizzie said quietly.

“How did you . . . meet?” Sarah asked out of politeness, desperate to move the conversation away from me potentially living with them.

? ? ?

“I’ve read that.”

“Huh?” I looked up at the stranger who had sat right next to me on Clapham Common despite the unlimited grass that surrounded us. I was trying out this whole “being outside in the summer” thing that people seemed to like so much, and it was mainly fine apart from the insects. I should have known that someone would come along and spoil it.

“The Lost World.” With one hand, the stranger shielded his eyes from the sun, and pointed at my book with the other. Even though they were partly hidden, I could see how green they were. “I like it, as far as sequels go. Didn’t like the film, though,” he said.

“It’s one of my favorite films,” I said, lifting my sunglasses and letting them rest in my hair.

“Ha, sorry. I’m Tom,” the boy said, holding out his hand to shake.

“I don’t like touching strangers. Don’t take it personally, though. I don’t really like touching anyone.” I put my book down on the grass. “I’m Queenie.”

“Is that a nickname? Or your actual name?”

“Yes. Is Tom yours?” I smiled at him.

“Yeah, fair point.” He laughed nervously. “Do you live round here?”

“No. But I like the common,” I told him. “I grew up not far from here.”

“Oh, cool. Were you born here?” Why was he asking so many questions? Was he an immigration officer?

“. . . in the UK? Yes. I know that I’m black, but I wasn’t born in ‘nebulous Africa.’?”

He laughed. “You’re a funny one, aren’t you?”

“Funny weird or funny ha-ha?”

“Both,” he said. “Not that being funny weird is a bad thing.”

“No, I know. I think it’s my personal brand.” I smiled at the ground, fiddling with the corner of my book. He was the first man I’d met who seemed not to want to immediately push any weirdness out of me.

“I like your hair. It’s really long,” Tom said. I wasn’t used to being approached by men who wanted to say nice things to me. It was very weird and unfamiliar. But it was nice.

“Thanks. I bought it myself.” I flicked it over my shoulder and it whipped him in the face accidentally. He ducked and laughed again. He had a nice laugh, I noticed. There was nothing about it that made me think he was laughing at me.

“Do you live around here?” I asked, panicking a bit as I felt myself soften.

“No, I work just over there.” He pointed into the distance. “I’m a Web developer. Started a few months ago, but I’ve been working on this killer project for days,” he said, lying back on the grass. “I’ve had too much coffee and my eyes were going a bit funny. My colleague told me to get some fresh air.”

“Web development, huh? Fancy,” I said, impressed. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure, go for it.”

“Is that your job because you see the world in code, like in The Matrix?” I asked sincerely.

“Ha, good question.” He laughed his nice laugh again. “No. Almost. I guess I like it because it’s very logical. I like logic, I like rules.”

“Oh God, I don’t.”

“Ah, a rule breaker.” He raised his eyebrows. Like his laugh, they were nice too. “So, what do you do, Queenie?”

“Nothing, yet,” I told him.

“What are you going to do?” he asked.

“I’m going to change the world,” I said. “The world of reporting, anyway. I graduated last year and have been doing absolutely nothing with my degree ever since. I had an interview this morning at a newspaper, though. The Daily Read. Can you believe that they interview people for an internship? All I’ll be getting is lunch money and they asked me to give five examples of culture websites and what makes them so successful. I had to do a PowerPoint and everything.” I was talking so much.

“Ah, welcome to the world of free labor,” he said, standing up and taking his phone out of his pocket. “Shit, I need to get back. They’ve found some sort of bug.”

His leaving unexpectedly took me by surprise. “Bye, then,” I said defensively.

“Can I, er, have your number?” Tom asked, his voice breaking slightly. “It’d be nice to talk to you again.”