How It Is These Days

The narrator describes a trip to the cinema with his girlfriend that left his masculine ego a bit bruised . . .

Alison was in teasing mode when we went to the cinema that night. She slapped me in her car when I said she was driving too slow. She slapped me in the restaurant because she thought I was eating too much, and then again when I nicked some of her tasty-looking dessert. She slapped me at the ticket booth, because I joked with the attendant that we wanted seats at opposite ends of the auditorium. And she slapped me again when I spilt some of our popcorn on the carpet (so causing me to spill even more).

As the lights faded and the murmuring audience quietened, I reached over and took that menacing hand.

“What are you up to?” Alison purred.

“In the interests of my national security, I’m occupying this hand.”

My love gently leaned her head against my shoulder. And I began to massage the back of her hand, to run my fingers along hers, to round her nails with my fingertips. Now I’ll be the first to admit, for such an elegant Alison, she doesn’t have the most beautiful hands: they’re a bit short, a bit bony, and there’s a rough patch between the knuckles of her left index finger that she can’t explain. But I love them, absolutely adore them, because their shape and texture spell her name as clear as Braille.

I tried to fix my eyes on the giant screen in front of us, but the film was a noisy, flickering intrusion. In a mind busy with love, there is no room for crude fictions. The soundtrack was all clangs, incoherent lushness and random one-liners: ‘I’ve backed you up to the hilt on this one, Gordy;’ ‘God, this city is brutal: I love it;’ ‘Love is like life – it’s what you make it.’

But there came a time when I realised I was being distracted, becoming annoyed. Presently I located the source: three teenage boys, a few rows behind, were talking and jeering cockily. I turned, unthreading my fingers from Alison’s. She lifted her head from my shoulder and sighed. “Excuse me,” I called out, “could you pipe down a bit please!”

The lads were stunned into silence at first, but soon started giggling. I did not retake Alison’s hand. I knew they would be piqued, they wouldn’t let it rest at that. And, sure enough, after a few minutes, one of the boys began to speak again, louder than before, and more deliberately: “You get some real fuckers in here, real total fuckers.”

I was boiling with fury, when Alison stood abruptly, pushed past my knees, and marched over to the little posse. “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” she repeated, quietly but intensely, raining down play-slaps onto an offending youth, who raised his hands like an umbrella to defend himself: “Piss off you mad cow!” I stood up as soon as I heard that. But someone had already gone and fetched one of the staff, who came up and asked the boys to leave. Alison returned to her seat. She did not lean her head on me. We did not join hands. I wanted to put my arm around her, but didn’t know how.

I knew we’d see the posse again. They would wait for us outside – that’s how it is these days. Of course, I wouldn’t let them insult Alison again. Wouldn’t let them? How wouldn’t I let them, precisely? I’d take them on. Really? OK, I’d tell them where to stuff themselves, little yobs. But what if they followed us to the car? We're parked right at the far end – it’s dark and lonely out there. What if they brought some of their mates along? There’s still no CCTV cameras although they’ve been going on about them for ages. I’m worried. No I’m not. Yes I am. Oh Love, Love, where are you when I need you? I love Alison more than anything. This should be easy. Love should be there, telling me what to do, finding me wit and courage and energy. Isn’t that what Love is?

The film dragged on tediously to its end. I thought we should play for time, study the credits, have another round of our ‘Guess the Key Grip’ game. But Alison stood up and began walking sideways out to the end of the row. I got up and followed. As we passed through the foyer, I could see the posse hanging out just beyond the glass doors. I kept my eyes averted. Alison, meanwhile, well she just kept chattering on and on and on. I imagine she was doing her film crit bit, but I didn’t hear a word. “Yeah, that’s right,” I said lamely a couple of times, through my teeth. The youths were now trailing us as we crossed to the car park. I could sense them, sizing us up and plotting against us from behind. I thought Alison hadn’t noticed them. So I was as surprised as they were when she turned suddenly: “Just go away,” she screamed. “You’re being really pathetic!”

“What you doing?” I hissed. “Be quiet or you’ll make it worse!”

“Don’t tell me to be quiet!” she cut into me. Then to the boys: “You’re so pathetic, you know!”

“Piss off you fucking cow!” said one. “What about that wanker you’ve got for a boyfriend?” inquired another. “He’s as shit as you are!”

“What about your turds-for-brains?” my love retorted.

“For chrissake, Alison . . . ” I began. Then I addressed myself to the posse: “She doesn’t mean it, she’s just had a few drinks, that’s all.”

“You liar!” she exclaimed. There was a wild look in her eyes as she began to slap me. But I sensed by the force of her strikes that things were not as they appeared.

“Ha, ha, ha!” the youths cackled. “You’re fucked, mate!” one observed. Casually, they turned, and wandered off.

Things were very quiet between Alison and me for a while. In silence we rejoined her car, in silence we plugged in our seat belts, in silence we swayed past the roundabouts and accelerated down the dual carriageway. After four or five minutes, she sighed. “I couldn’t think what else to do,” she said, trying to draw me out of my sulk.

“Evidently not,” I replied curtly. But at least I had said something. And, to give her her due, Alison has not slapped me again.