Gwendolyn Sharp may as well have been a bloodhound.
She turned up at the museum nearly every day for the next week and, though our conversations was scarcely this side of civil, and they never lasted longer than half an hour, nonetheless I became used to her irritating presence and came to look at her visits as just another part of my day, unavoidable. To me, the strangest part lay in the fact that she kept returning; typically, after just two or three failed shots at friendship or even cordiality, people threw up their hands and pronounced me a hopeless case. Simply unlovable. Yet every day, right around 1 o'clock, when my doltish colleagues were taking their lunch break and Kate Hemmings was looking for something else I could do until the wee hours of the morning, she arrived, with a smile and a "Hello, Bernard!" which usually went without response. She would sit on the railing as I checked over the exhibits, ignoring my habitual rebukes that visitors were not permitted to sit on said railing, and talk to me as I worked, undeterred by any lack of enthusiasm towards her extended olive branch, never leaving without a smiling "Bye, Bernard, see you tomorrow!" and a friendly wave, as though we were buddies chatting cozily over coffee instead of an antisocial museum curator and a persistent, optimistic, intrinsically stubborn young thing who had mistaken ideas about what could and could not be done. My life was still much the same; I still wore the same thing every day, my apartment was still tiny and dingy and smelt of tobacco, and I still frequently worked late and returned to my quarters spent. Yet Gwendolyn's visits, as annoying n and irksomely cheerful as they may have been, lightened the heavy monotony that constituted my existence, and for this I was, perhaps not grateful, but tolerant…
About two weeks after that first meeting, Gwendolyn, perched on the rail once more and chatting blithely, asked me if I would like to "swing by" (her stupid phrasing, not my own) the nearby coffeehouse with her and have a drink with her; my answer was habitual and immediate.
"No."
"C'mon, Bernard," she coaxed—as if wheedling really worked on me. "It'll be fun; do you have something else to do?"
"No."
"Then why not? Look, I'll treat you!"
"Unfortunately, I am no so financially insecure as to be unable to afford a simple cup of coffee; when that day comes, we'll get as many coffees as you please."
She frowned at my sarcasm and, quite unbothered, said firmly:
"Then I'll just wait until you go for lunch break. It's in about 30 minutes, anyway."
"Stalking is a very unbecoming profession for a lady."
Her cheeks flushed at this one, and her voice was just barely defensive as she retorted:
"I don't stalk you! Is it so unlikely that, after two weeks of forming your acquaintance, I should happen to observe when you take your lunch break?"
"No, of course not, how foolish of me. It's exceedingly normal."
Gwendolyn's eyes flashed, and, with a foreboding smirk, she said slowly:
"Bernard, if you don't shut up, I shall accompany you until you leave to go home, and we both know you practically live here."
I was silent for the next 30 minutes.
As she had threatened, Gwendolyn accompanied me on my trek down the street to the pretentious local coffeehouse, pointedly oblivious to some of the nastier comments I made on the way. Deciding it would be a waste of precious energy to try and get rid of her, I shrugged and ignored her as we entered the shop, approaching the counter. The counter girl knew me by now, at least by appearance; I was a frequent customer.
"The usual," I told her, shoving a five dollar bill across the counter at her.
"Yes, sir," she replied; this was ever the extent of our conversations.
Gwendolyn gave her order, and I sat down at one of the bland, wooden tables, waiting. She sat beside me; I decided not to acknowledge the fact.
"Do you eat anything for lunch?" she asked me, as I wordlessly took my coffee without thanking the girl. She had, by now, come to expect this; we no longer even made eye contact.
"No."
Her eyebrows went up, and a crease appeared on her brow, born of some emotion I couldn't quite place.
"Never? You go all day without eating?"
"I don't see how that's any business of yours," I said, with a shrug. "But obviously I eat; it is a necessity for survival, and as of yet I still breathe."
"You know, subsisting mainly on coffee is considered by modern scientists very unhealthy."
"I don't care," I said, truthfully. The opinion of modern scientists had never troubled me as of yet; in fact, it was people like said modern scientists who considered me socially starved and depressed. Gwendolyn, to her credit, looked as if she might have known I would say that.
"Do you care about anything?"
She caught on quickly.
"No."
"Well, you should," she said, and there was something very much like a sigh in her voice. "Why not?"
I didn't want to tell her why not; she wouldn't understood that caring too often led to hurting.
"Because."
"Well, you should try caring once in a while; it lends spice to life."
I did not deign to reply to something so asinine; jerking one shoulder non commitally, I nodded and focused my full attention on my coffee. Still Miss Sharp continued her indefatigable flow of conversation.
"So tell me, Bernard, what is your favorite topic in history?"
"What do you know of history?" I replied coolly, not at all impressed by her attempts to "be neighbourly".
"Not much," she said candidly. "But I am quite fond of the Presidents, if you wanted to know."
"I didn't," I said, not allowing myself to be surprised or—could it be so?—slightly impressed by female who found interest in what many considered to be musty old men. "So I suppose you consider yourself an executive expert?"
Her cheeks warmed at my dry, mocking tone, and she quickly shook her head.
"No, not at all! I just think they're interesting."
"Sure they're interesting," I said, with no change of expression. "They were symbolic of the United States for a brief period of time. A five year old could have told me they were interesting."
"Well, why don't you quiz me?" she shot back, and I bit back a little smirk at the indignation in her voice. There was something about Gwendolyn Sharp roused and angry that caused me a pang of something very much like amusement.
"Okay, then. Which president served two terms, but not consecutively?"
Her reply was instantaneous, almost without thought.
"Grover Cleveland."
Well. That was too simple a question anyway. Any giddy high school girl could have been able to tell me that. I'd have to try something harder.
"Which president was a bachelor?"
"James Buchanan."
Dammit; she'd gotten that one right, too. Well, we'd see about that.
"Who was Buchanan's famous successor to the Presidency?"
"Lincoln."
Here, I decided to delve deeply into the obscure, as a true test to her knowledge. Not that I really cared; it was simply a means of distracting her from any nosy questions about my family life.
"According to one anecdote, which president was called, by his faithful servant, a 'sicond hand Prisident?'"
But my efforts had been in vain; Gwendolyn Sharp shot me what could only be described as a triumphant smirk and said, with deliberate emphasis:
"Millard Fillmore."
"Very good," I drawled, talking to my cup. "You have mastered the basic trivial knowledge of some of the most famous men in American history. A true scholar."
Her smile hardened, and her eyes, for a moment, looked nearly green; unbidden, the thought came that Gwendolyn wasn't quite as unattractive as all the other faceless femmes in my narrow circle of acquaintance. Nowhere near pretty, of course—I'd never yet seen a girl I'd consider pretty—but maybe not so revoltingly uniform as the others of her species.
"Bernard, I don't think you ever answered my question."
Gwendolyn's voice sliced through my disinterested reverie almost rudely; stifling an unreasonable irritation, I replied:
"I don't think you ever asked a question worth answering."
As it happened, this was the straw that broke the proverbial camel's back; pushing back her chair, my companion cried:
"You are SUCH an ass!"
Unmoved and unabashed by the curious stares we were starting to gather, I just gazed at her, completely unimpressed. Finally, once she was turning a slow crimson at the realization of just how loud she'd been, I said simply:
"That depends on how one defines the word. Personally, I consider an ass to be, in some cases, one who makes an undesirable scene in a public place."
"Shut up!" she retorted, and, in an effort to seem as if she truly didn't care, tossed her head. "And I would consider an ass to be the cause of said public scene."
I simply shrugged, knowing from long experience that this was what irritated people—particularly young women—the most when they were in a temper. Getting up, I tossed the empty Styrofoam cup into the trendy little garbage can and walked out, not bothering or caring to see if she followed. She did, of course, and within a few moments we were standing at the doorway of the museum, and I was hoping half-heartedly that she'd leave—and yet, at the same time, considering the interest her flashing temper and bubbly disposition were adding already to my dull, blank stretch of a life…
"Goodbye, Bernard," she said, smiling again. "Thanks for having me; I had a great time."
The pest acted as if I'd actually invited her along, instead of done everything in my power to prevent her from going. Wryly amused, I moved one shoulder up and down and murmured:
"I'm sure."
And then Gwendolyn began to do something really strange; she started to lean in towards me, and her arms made as if to wrap around my back; startled, I quickly retreated from her grasp and demanded, not quite as indifferently as usual:
"What are you doing?"
Her eyebrows went up, and there was laughter in her eyes—wasn't there always?—as she replied:
"I'm trying to give you a hug, Bernard. You know, those things Mother gave before you toddled off to bed."
Her words had, without even meaning to, touched a nerve; sucking in a quick breath, I turned away from her, as, in my head, something very painful played out, still fresh and sharp…
I was a very little boy sitting in bed, all alone in the dark, biting my lip as I waited for a tall, familiar figure to pass by…sure enough, she did, and I called out.
"Mummy!"
She came in, and I saw immediately that she was going out somewhere; she was wearing her bright lipstick, the stuff she never wore for Dad.
"What, Bernard?"
"Mum, I wanna know," I said, staring up at her with solemn eyes. "Do you love me?"
She looked at me, her only son, and something very much like contempt curved her mouth; with a negligent shrug, she said simply:
"Sure, Bernard. Sure."
And then she left, closing the door behind her and leaving me in complete blackness.
Meanwhile Gwendolyn's eyes were wide with alarm, and she was calling my name, asking if I was alright. I clenched my jaw and said, in a strained voice:
"Don't make assumptions about my mother."
Puzzled, she nodded, and, whispering an apology, held out her hand, this time with a tentative air. I stared at it.
"Let's just shake hands, then," she said, with a feeble effort to be nonchalant. "W-we'll get to hugs later."
I made a dry, sardonic sound which intimated that I rather doubted that—and then gingerly took her hand in mine. The contact was surprising; her hand was smaller than mine, and seemed almost fragile. I jerked it up and down awkwardly, and then, as if she were a leper, let go, bringing my now tingling hand back to my side.
"Goodbye, Gwendolyn," I said, turning away and opening the door.
"B-bye, Bernard," she said, rather softly. "See you tomorrow."
"Most probably. It can't be avoided."
She smiled, as if I were kidding, and, with a little wave, walked off—and I was left standing there and wondering why the hell I could still feel her hand in mine.
