Freddie frivolously moves his hands along his goose bump ravaged arms in a measly attempt to warm them. No such luck – he hasn't had much of it these days. He stares out at the dark street as his mind wanders through his recent misfortunes. The one most poignant in his mind would be the one that landed him here at the bus stop. In his head he sees the gothic, ethereal Effy standing at her window looking down at him. He realizes the contradiction in using "gothic" and "ethereal" in the same sentence to describe Effy, but he realizes in its own twisted way, it's perfect. To him Effy will always be a contradiction, but he decides he is finished trying to figure her out. He knows this decision will change once he lays eyes on her again, but for now he can pretend. He can pretend to be indifferent to the scene that he just witnessed. Cook kissing and caressing Effy as she looked on down at him below. He can pretend, he has to, he must for his own good. He releases a sigh he doesn't realize he was keeping inside the pit of his throat. He runs his fingers through his hair in utter frustration, confusion and desperation. He touches his jeans pocket, ready to light a spliff, only to realize there isn't anymore left; he has smoked them all. "Fuck!" he yells as he kicks a wall nearby.
"Don't hurt yourself now, cause that would be a travesty." Freddie looks up into the eyes of gorgeous girl whose skin reminds him of hot chocolate. He always liked hot chocolate. She smiles at him. Effy hardly smiles.
"Sorry, what was that?" He asks her. He's heard her all right, but he doesn't know what to say in response to that, and he doesn't want to be rude. She smirks at him.
"What's wrong with you?" She asks deliberately not answering his question. He squints at her in suspicion.
"Um, not to be rude but who are you and why do you care?"
"Well, I'm Ayla and who the hell are you? And, I don't care, but if your story's tragic enough as I'm assuming it is based on the power of your kick to the poor brick wall over here, then I'm sure I could, you know care." Freddie sits down on the cold metal bus stop bench, bending forward a bit and absentmindedly rubbing his kneecaps that are presently covered by his holey denim jeans. He releases yet another sigh.
"I'm Freddie and I guess you could say my story's tragic, but isn't everyone's?"
"To some degree, yes. It's all how you look at it though, innit?" Freddie laughs at her and she casts him a look. He shuts up instantly.
"I didn't mean to offend you, it's just you sound kind of…"
"Philosophical? So, I've been told. It's funny cause I fucking hate philosophy. My dad's a philosopher of sorts. I prefer to just live life instead of contemplating it." She pushes some of her wavy black hair behind her ear and huffs. "So, are we just gonna sit here like a pair of wankers, or are we gonna do something about your problem?"
"You don't even know what my problem is." He states.
"True, but there's nothing a little smoke, alcohol and a great party can't cure." She smirks, pulling out two spliffs from her jacket pocket. One for her. One for him. "Want one?"
"You have no idea," he grins gratefully at her as he takes the spliff placing it on his lips as she lights the other end. He inhales deeply and exhales contently.
"I guess not," she smiles to herself. The pair smoke together in silence for sometime, just enjoying each other's company as well as the company of a long desired smoke.
"So, you from here?" Freddie asks Ayla suddenly.
"No, I'm from Boston originally. You know, Boston in the States. I moved to London with my mum five years ago and then I moved here to Bristol with my mum again five days ago."
"Really?" She shakes her head in confirmation.
"So, you were how old when you came here?"
"Twelve. I was twelve when I first moved here to England. I haven't looked back since."
"Why not?"
"Because everyone in Boston is a bloody tosser."
"Well, it's good to know you've got the slang down."
"Innit?" She smiles. "So, are you from around here?"
"Yeah. Bristol born and raised."
"That's nice," Ayla comments, inhaling another puff of spliff smoke.
"Not exactly. Not when your mum's dead, your supposed best mate's a fuckin' twat and the girl you like is a cunting whore."
"Ouch… so, is this a part of your tragic story then?"
"Yeah, pretty much."
"Well, that blows." Suddenly, the headlights of the approaching bus shine in their faces. "C'mon," Ayla orders, "Put it out, we're going to a party."
"We?" He asks pointing at Ayla and himself
"Yes, we. Who else Freddie, the sodding Boogeyman?"
"No, I guess not." They put out their spliffs and get on the bus. They grab seats toward the back.
"You alright?" Ayla asks after a few minutes as they both stare out at the windows enamored with Bristol after dark.
"No, but I will be."
"Yes, you will," she answers him with a smirk. He gives her a confused look. "We're here?"
"Oh." They both descend from the bus. "I don't see anything," Freddie pipes up, although it comes out more like a whine of sorts.
"Patience, my little grasshopper," Ayla grins. He doesn't get it, but he laughs along with her anyway. It's definitely the weed. But, a little laughter never hurt anyone he decides and he laughs like he hasn't in a while. As many come to learn, laughter is contagious and soon Freddie and Ayla find themselves in a silly heap on the grass at the nearby park. After a few minutes of deep breathing and failed self-collections, they finally stop laughing enough to get their breathing under control. Ayla pulls out a bottle of tequila from her purse and takes a swig. Feeling neglected, Freddie steals it from her and drinks nearly half the bottle in three gulps. They share the bottle back and forth until it's empty. Sighing, they lie back on the grass and look up at the stars.
In their relatively drunken stupor, they hold hands on the grass, while their free hand is used to comfort their heads on terra firma. They speak of many topics.
Freddie's mum.
Ayla's mum.
Freddie's sister.
Ayla's lack of siblings.
Freddie's dad.
Ayla's dad.
Freddie's "friends."
Ayla's friends – although, she suspects she should put quotes around the word friend as well.
The future.
Skateboarding – his hobby.
Running – her hobby.
Smoking spliffs – his passion.
Filmaking – her passion.
Their desires.
Their fears.
Their confusions.
Their concerns.
Their frustrations.
Their likes.
Their dislikes.
Philosophical things.
Superficial things.
Sex, drugs, rock and roll – well, just the first two really.
"Was there really a party?" Freddie asks after a long moment of silence, merely filled by the rhythmic breathing of the two.
"No." Ayla answers sleepily. She's been dozing off for a while, but the sound of Freddie's soft, lullaby-esque voice keeps her awake, ironically.
"No?" Freddie asks sitting up suddenly.
"Nope."
"What the-"
"Look, sometimes I-I just… need to be closer."
"Um, come again?"
"Closer. I said closer!" She begins to explain in exasperation. "Tonight, I just wanted to feel closer to someone. It gets lonely out here at times when you put up walls shielding you from the world. Of course, you wouldn't understand that since you let people tear down your walls and trample all over you like some stupid bug." She responds bitterly and defensively. Freddie opens his mouth, closes it and opens it again trying to find words while sitting up. Ayla instantly looks regretful. "Sorry," she squeaks. "That was awful of me."
"It's cool." Freddie finally says, laying back down on the grass, with one hand behind his head, the other holding on to Ayla's for some unrealized support and relief as his eyes scan the stars above. The white specks against the dark night force his mind to flutter from self-pity, to determination, to relaxed. He comes to understand that it is indeed cool. It'll work itself out eventually, he needs to move on, and it's better to do it now and it's better that he didn't get too involved with Effy. Freddie feels Ayla's body move closer to him. Her head is now on his chest and he feels her now sleeping frame rise up and down evenly. He pulls her closer and unconsciously rubs small circles along the length of her back. He impulsively kisses her forehead, brushing hair out of her face. She stirs a little, but she does not wake. He looks from her to the stars and with a small toothless smile, sleep eventually finds him.
Freddie blinks as rays of sun blind him temporarily. He stretches and he finds his body to be sore. In a daze he sits up, curious as to why there's grass below him and a dawn sky directly above him. He remembers last night and a small smile dances along his face. He looks around for Ayla, but the gorgeous, mysterious girl is nowhere to be found. He has a headache the size of Russia. He doesn't recall drinking all that much, but he remembers the high quantity of alcohol in that drink and forces himself off the ground. His environment is spinning, but only for a little bit. No one's about on the desolate street, but taking a look at the clock on his mobile, he realizes that it is indeed the ass crack of dawn. He yawns at the discovery of the time and almost misses a ripped up scrap of yellow paper embedded in the green, green grass. He picks it up and unfolds it. It simply reads:
Let's test our theory on fate. Let it be.
If we're meant to find each other again,
We shall
Ayla
The letter is referring to the philosophical part of their conversation last night in the midst of drunken stargazing when they spoke of fate and how it always seemed to work out for the worst, and how no one could ever control it. Nevertheless, they reached a consensus – you can have anything if you want it enough. Now why did that sound vaguely familiar? He puts the paper in his pocket and heads to his house that he could never quite call a home after his mother died. During the silent walk, he wills himself to at least pretend to be the master of his own fate from here on out. He vows not to skate by on life anymore – pun sort of intended. He'll grab life by the horns and take charge of it; he'll call the shots. Like a bull rider and his bull. He scratches his head, now unsure if his bull rider simile makes any sense. He doesn't care, he knows what he means, and at the moment that is all that matters.
Freddie frivolously moves his hands along his goose bump ravaged arms in a measly attempt to warm them. He finds himself at a bus stop waiting for the first bus of the day to arrive. He checks his phone, it's 6: 25 am, it should be here in a matter of minutes according to the schedule he acquired on the internet thanks to his mobile. He stares at the street in front of him and soon the bus pulls up to the stop. He hops on after paying and gets a seat in the back. He sits down running his hands through his messy bed hair, there are only two other people on the bus and the silence is deafening. He stares out the window, looking at the Bristol sunrise, unsure but ready all the same for what's next.
It's time to pretend.