An Impossible Thing Called Love. Belinda Missen
Street, a neat mixture of Georgian and Renaissance architecture. I wouldn’t have known that fact if I hadn’t spent three hours battling drizzling rain in a thin plastic poncho on a walking tour this morning. Ornate windows from tall buildings looked down on the street and, while I was busy marvelling at that, a scuffle broke my train of thought and drew my attention back to the here and now.
Josh jogged towards us, nattering nervously about something happening further up the road. Despite the cold, a bead of sweat rolled down his temple. His brown eyes were wide with … was that fear?
‘This dude thinks I grabbed his girlfriend. He’s looking for me.’ A jittery hand rested over his mouth as he surveyed the scene before us. Heads turned towards him. Everyone could see what was coming before he could.
‘What?’ Now my eyes widened. ‘What have you done?’
Heather did what she does best and gave him a shove. ‘You idiot.’
‘No, no, it’s not like that. I thought she was single.’
He always thought they were single.
A scowling boyfriend emerged from the crowd, his own Moses parting the sea moment, complete with hot-pink beanie and clenched fists. He glared at me only briefly, long enough to acknowledge that I was there, before reaching around me for Josh, who was swearing like a stand-up comedian combating a heckler. My pulse began racing.
Heather pulled me out of the way but, I wasn’t prepared to spend the night tending to Josh’s wounds. I was on holiday, not working, and I wasn’t about to let him ruin all our fun. I handed her my torch and made a beeline for the scrum. Both he and Burly Man were very shouty, shoving each other in the tiny boxing ring that had formed around them.
‘Josh!’ I shouted.
He held a palm out to stop. ‘It’s alright, Em, just don’t worry about it, okay?’
‘That’s your girlfriend is it?’ Burly Man tipped an oversized chin in my direction. ‘Some boyfriend you are.’
Grabbing Josh, I muttered something about men and women still being able to be friends in this day and age without having to get naked with each other. I think I might have been louder than expected because, before I could so much as clutch at Josh’s jacket, they were jostling again. A rustle of fabric, a flash of dancing footsteps, and I felt a blunt sting across my face. All at once, everything was dark and far too bright, like a child was flickering a light switch. My sinuses were connected to a trip switch in my heart, and each beat offered a sulphuric burn. I was disoriented and, as my eyes watered, I took a wobbly seat on the ground. It may have been cold and wet, but it was better than swaying about.
I knew how these moments played out, I’d seen it a million times before when volunteering with the ambulance. Music concerts were especially healthy for face to fist experiences. Heather was screaming at someone, probably Josh, who was apologising profusely. Her voice was soon joined by the polyester swish of a hi-vis bomber jacket. I blinked away tears, hoping to get a proper look at the face that swam in my vision.
Touching my nose only made my face burn and eyes water all over again. Through damp eyes, he looked like a watercolour painting. Street lights shimmered in one corner, and his hair a wispy flame-red cloud with sideburns that reached down and hugged his face. His blurred lopsided smile was the most beautiful thing I’d seen all night. As he came into focus, so did Josh over his shoulder.
‘Oh, Em, I am … fuck … so sorry. Are you okay?’
Heather slapped at him again. ‘What do you think, idiot?’
She barely touched five-feet-tall in a line-up. Despite that, she was full of energy and, right now, looked like a mother about to grab at naughty earlobes. Josh inched away from her and, in all this, it occurred to me just how many people were happy to watch what was happening, to whisper among themselves instead of help. I lolled about, steadying myself with a palm on the cold wet asphalt. Dropping on his haunches, the first-aider snapped his fingers in front of me.
‘You okay?’ he asked. ‘Is there any blood?’
I frowned, confused. ‘Huh?’
‘Are you bleeding?’ He flashed a torchlight across my eyes and offered a fistful of tissues.
Squinting away from the brightness, I dabbed at my eyes. Anything near my nose made me want to vomit, but there was a small trickle of blood. ‘Thank you.’
‘At least it’s not broken,’ we said in unison.
His mouth twitched, a smile that threatened to widen as he offered me a cold pack. Under the light, his eyes were, in one moment, bottle-green. The next, they were ocean blue. ‘What makes you say that?’
It’s not all bent up and I can still breathe.’ Through squinting eyes, I waggled a finger at his jacket, complete with reflective patches and a blank space for a name badge. ‘It looks just as good on you as it does on me.’
‘Is that so?’
My nose burned, and I rolled forward, tissue to my nose. ‘At least it’s warm, right?’
‘You do a bit of first aid, too?’
I nodded, looking about for my friends. Burly Man had disappeared, and Josh was still being reprimanded by Heather. He looked like a small child, hands up around his chest as if he’d physically shrunk against her anger, which was par for their friendship.
Heather and I met in Grade Two, when my family moved to the area. On the first day of school, while I stood the back of the crowd waiting for something to happen, she strode across the quadrangle, shook my hand, and introduced herself as my new best friend. Who could possibly argue with that?
We met Josh a few months later when he started at the school. He came prepacked with a face full of freckles, crooked teeth, and milk bottle glasses. When the other boys picked on him, Heather went into battle for him, and he’s never forgotten it. Since then, it had been the three of us. Josh slotted into our lives as if he’d always been there and, when I got my first period in the middle of gym class, he whipped out a small make-up bag from his backpack. Inside: pads, tampons, and Panadol. His mum had given it to him, so he could, ‘be a good friend’.
He still carried that make-up bag but, now, it also contained condoms, Berocca, and anything else needed for a quick hangover fix. That was essentially our friendship.
I dabbed at my nose again, resisting the urge to vomit. ‘A little. Mostly concerts.’
‘Why don’t you come across to the first aid station and tell me more about that.’ He held out a hand and pulled me to my feet. Did I mention he had wonderfully strong hands? ‘My name is William.’
I brushed myself down – anything to avoid touching my face. ‘Emmy.’
I followed his jacket through the crowd, the state of my face more of a bemusement and free sideshow attraction to anyone who walked past.
‘So, first aid?’ he asked.
‘Oh, I did get a call up for the tennis in Melbourne last year.’ I followed along with pointed finger and stories at the ready. As often as I could explain the goings on to friends, they didn’t quite get it. This guy? He spoke my language.
‘I am so jealous of you right now.’ William ushered me into the first aid station. ‘I’ve often thought of packing up for a summer and heading down for the tennis.’
The first aid station, which probably doubled as a marquee at family barbecues and sports club days, wasn’t much warmer than the street, but an industrial heater in the corner at least took the chill off the air. That’s more than I could say for the wet patch on my backside. My friends lingered outside, like students waiting outside a principal’s office. Our torches had been handed off to others in the heat of the moment. Occasionally, Heather peered inside, her face wrought with concern.
‘Jealous of me?’ I said with a disbelieving laugh. ‘Please, I’ve just taken a fist to the face.’