Lunchtimes had never been much of a social event for David Posner.
He had sat by himself for most lunchbreaks throughout his education at Cutlers' Grammar School. Each day at twelve o'clock he could be found at his favourite spot on the stairs, leading up to the school's front door. This solitude never really bothered him much… generally, he just read his books quietly, munching on a kosher sandwich. If not sitting at his spot on the stairs, Posner could be found in the library, or – on occasion – in Hector's classroom.
When it came to his last year, especially during the last term, he was often joined by Scripps and Dakin. He was almost certain that this was only out of pity; when they did sit there, on the stairs with him, their company was for the most part the extent of their charity. Posner rarely actually took part in the conversation.
Still, he enjoyed having them sit with him. He liked to listen to their conversations, watch their movements, study their odd little idiosyncrasies.
Scripps, for instance, would look to the silver, analogue watch on his left hand at least every ten minutes. After checking it he would tut, shake his wrist, and lower it again to a more natural position. As a result, he was always a reliable source of the time.
Not that Posner ever really noticed. In the beginning, when they first sat with him on the stairs, his energy was channelled almost entirely into the envy he felt for Dakin. And as he began to fall for Dakin, he noticed Scripps' presence at lunchtime less and less. While Dakin bragged of his latest exploits with Fiona, the Headmaster's secretary, Posner watched attentively, determined to memorise every detail, every hair, every self-satisfied expression on the face of the boy that he loved. He let the chatter skim over him, allowing the relevant literature to recite itself through his mind, rhythmic and detailed, and ringing true through all his consciousness.
When he graduated to Oxford, Posner began to find acceptance, at last, amongst other students in his college. He grew happier, and more rounded, ignoring his insecurities and blossoming to finally become who he was, who he had always really been.
Despite this, his lunchtimes were still generally eremitic; he could be found in the courtyard by himself around midday most days, sprawled alone on the grass, taking in the fresh, Oxford air.
His contentment had almost had him forget who he had been at school. He was in his second year when he'd received the phone call from Scripps – "Alright, Posner? It's been awhile…" – and agreed to meet him and catch up, ironically enough, for lunch.
He reached the café a few minutes late that afternoon, and Scripps was already seated in a small booth when he arrived. He stood to shake Posner's hand, and with mutual smiles they sat down opposite one another. He looked exactly the same – save the vague stubble not uncommon among second year university students – and yet, entirely different to the Scripps in Posner's memory. Something was missing, but in a good way; Scripps seemed more relaxed, more fulfilled, than Posner remembered.
They ordered their lunch – "Does the Soup Of The Day have any pork?" – and sat, chatting amiably of the weather and of studies and of new friends until their food arrived.
As it did, they reached the topic of Irwin's fairly new programme on BBC, and still Posner wondered at the Scripps – clever, witty, enjoyable – sitting before him, the one he had seen so rarely at school.
Eventually, of course, discussion of Irwin lead them onto Mrs Lintott, and Felix, and then onto their fellow history boys. Rudge was still playing rugger, Scripps reported, and Posner was able to supply that Crowther had switched to studying Law a while ago. And then, after skimming over the others, they reached the topic that had been looming above them, menacingly silent, since Posner had arrived.
"How's Dakin?"
And, instantly, Posner knew that this was what was different. Not Scripps in himself, he had probably always been this funny, this dry, this attractive as company.
Only today, Posner wasn't blinded by the image of Dakin next to him, was able to focus on Scripps himself without the raw jealously that remained even when Dakin was absent thudding in his throat.
He had loved Dakin so much at school that his longing had never really left him. And Scripps, perhaps his only real friend at the time, had passed him by as so much more unremarkable, so much more ordinary than he really was.
And now, free of Dakin, Posner could see Scripps for what he really was.
"Yeah, he's well," Scripps replied. He took another bite of his sandwich, chewing and contemplating for a few moments. Then; "How's it been?" Scripps asked, "I mean… without…"
"The object of my affections?" Posner almost laughed. "Strangely relieving, actually."
"I suppose it would be," said Scripps thoughtfully. He looked to the silver, analogue watch that still sat on his left wrist, and nostalgia exploded in Posner's stomach.
"You still wear it," he remarked, without really realising that he was saying it aloud. And Scripps, eyebrows raised in surprise, replied;
"What, the watch? Yeah."
And Posner smiled, suddenly full of an almost foreign confidence.
And their conversation floated naturally and casually away from Dakin. Dakin, who, Posner realised, was now merely a boy he had once liked, or loved. Either way, his feelings for Dakin had passed, as everyone had assured him they would. And it was as he realised this that Posner had asked;
"So, are you seeing anyone at the moment?"
And Scripps replied;
"No, not right now. And you?"
And Posner said, quite satisfied;
"No, not really."
And by the time they had finished that conversation, they had finished their lunch, and so they paid, and let the café with cordial words of the rather pleasant time each had had in the other's company, and the enthusiastic promise to meet up again.
And various scenarios filled Posner's mind… he might see Scripps for lunch again, or dinner, or even a drink… perhaps even in Dakin's euphemistic meaning of the phrase…
But he'd see him without Dakin, because – though Posner had loved Dakin – he had been a right wanker, and perhaps he didn't want to see him, perhaps he only wanted to see Scripps now… it had been so nice to just be with him for a while, with no distractions…
And Posner began to hum, and then he wondered if Scripps still played piano, and felt something odd within him stir…
And so he turned away and walked back to his own college, satisfied, secure, sentimental and – above all – knowing happily that he'd be seeing Donald Scripps again very soon.