Platonic Love

          I met Sharona and Ed for lunch today to take a break from working in the Temple. We talked about the Sisters venture.

            “Okay,” I said, “what are the options?”

            “Er… let’s see,” Ed replied, “Annabell? Scheherazade?” He was certainly being a prick.

            “Yeah, why not Alice, or Jane while we’re at it?”

            “Okay, do you guys actually know any girls you haven’t screwed?” Sharona asked.

            “Er…”

            “Oh, I know!” I said. “There’s this girl, Nicole, a good friend of mine who lives in Soho. You’ll really like her, she does graphic design for television.”

            And so it was sorted. We’re all meeting tomorrow night.

PMA

“A man has free choice to the extent that he is rational.”

 – St. Thomas Aquinas

 

          This morning I walked into the kitchen. Ed was sitting eating a bowl of cereal. He looked up at me, impish as ever.

            “Ed, I have a small confession.”

            “What’s that then Tom? You really are a girl?”

            “I accidentally shagged Scheherazade.”

            Ed splurted cereal all over the table and started laughing uncontrollably.

            “Ed, this is serious.”

            Ed carried on laughing.

            “Ed… honestly. We’ve spoken about you taking things more seriously.”

            “Yeah, but Tom, you’re telling me you fucking slipped over on a banana skin and landed, stiff dick first, in PMA.”

            “What’s PMA, Ed?

            “Poor-Man’s-Annabell. And you know what PMA sounds like…”

            “Don’t fucking call her that Ed.”

            “Why the hell not? It’s true.”

            “Because it’s disrespectful, Ed, and because she’s in the room behind me.”

            “But you don’t say it’s not true. Don’t blame me when you call it an accident!” Scheherazade walked into the room wearing one of my shirts.

            “What accident?” She asked.

            “Tom very nearly slipped over and landed in a mess,” observed Ed.

            Scheherazade, oblivious, looked at me and said, “Be more careful sweetie.”

            I very nearly punched them both.

 

*

 

            Later, as I packed for the trip, I thought about it all. The sad thing was that I actually genuinely quite liked Scheherazade. I just couldn’t go out with a girl seen by others as PMA.

An Honest Joke

          My phone rang at midday today and I slowly picked it up, dreading the sight of Tim’s name or even worse, Fiona’s. To my relief it was Scheherazade.

            “I hear you’re going away, Tom.”

            “Indeed I am.”

            “Didn’t think you’d tell me eh?”

            “Oh God. Not you too!”

            “It’s a joke, Tom. You’re your own man; you can do what you like.”

            “Sorry, bad experience.”

            “You can tell me about it tonight. Let’s go out to celebrate your holiday!”

            The idea of celebrating it rather than being abused was appealing. I agreed. I’m off out in a minute. I’ll fill you in tomorrow.

My Little Duck

          We decided last night that we’d be leaving for America this coming weekend, so I spent the day today working furiously. I ended up staying in Chambers until around eight. Ed was truly bored by this point so he agreed to come meet me in the pub. Scheherazade was about and managed to invite herself along. I was dubious as to the sense in putting her in the same room as Ed but I resigned myself to it.

            Once inside the local pub and in possession of the appropriate beverage, Ed and I stood at the bar discussing his latest target with Scheherazade.

            “Mate,” I said, at a break in his description of her, “she sounds like more effort than she’s worth.”

            “Ah, my good man, you’re missing the point once again.”

            “Let me guess…”

            “…she’s a hot chick.”

            “Excuse me!” A girl had come over to the bar to order a drink. She’d been standing behind Ed as he’d been talking. At this interruption he turned around.

            “Good evening,” he said, flashing a ridiculously over the top grin.

            “I didn’t wish to engage you in conversation, but rather to inform you that the female of our species is not fowl.”

            “Well now, that all depends on the specimen in question.”

            “I do not mean ‘foul’ as in…”

            “I know,” he replied, laughing. “But either way, you’re wrong.”

            Ed stared at the girl who returned his gaze steadily. She waited for him to explain and he waited for her to ask him to.

            “Explain yourself man!” I interposed, fearful of murder by gaping (in their case) or boredom (in mine).

            “It’s simply a question of culture,” he explained, “when an English man calls a lady a ‘bird’ or a ‘chick’ he is simply demonstrating his cultivated sense of European language and tradition,” he knowingly raised an eyebrow at the girl. “For example, in French one might address a maiden as ‘mademoiselle’ and as you are no doubt well aware that more or less equates to ‘Mrs Bird’ in English. Equally, consider Spanish, in which a girl is a ‘chica’ which sounds suspiciously like ‘chick’ to me! So there you are my dear, I simply sought to emulate our civilised continental cousins who themselves aimed merely to compare the fairer sex with the most graceful and elegant of creatures.”

            Now the girl raised an eyebrow at Ed: not an eyebrow of knowing, but rather one of reckoning. Scheherazade too looked interested; I’m not sure how I felt about that. Ed chose this moment to bugger the thing up completely.

            “So how about it? Fancy a fuck, my little duck?”

            The moment of brief admiration flash boiled away.

            Once out of sight Ed enlightened me: “She wasn’t my type,” and I nearly passed out from shock. “You know,” he continued, changing the subject, “until now I wasn’t sure you were a real lawyer. Aren’t you supposed to work this late every night?”

            “I’m sorry,” I replied, “you had doubts about the reality of my job?”

            “Don’t know what yer on about mate.”

What've You Got to Lose?

          Working hard again today, I’m proud to say. It feels good to get some cases under my belt. Everything’s getting back on track.

            Scheherazade came in to see me today. “If I already asked a guy out on a date, then can I ask him again?” were her first words to me.

            “I suppose it rather depends on the circumstances,” I replied.

            “I asked him, he ignored the invitation. But then he carried on texting me in a slightly flirtatious way. So can I ask him again?”

            “Maybe he never got the first text…”

            “No, he got it. I’m sure of it. I don’t understand men.”

            “Ha!”

            “Seriously.”

            “Ask him again. What’ve you got to lose?”

Admissions

            “So, I forgot to ask, what happened to you on Friday night then Tom?” Ed had finally emerged from bed. I’d been up for a while finishing some of my work in the living room.

            “I had a mountain of work to get through.”

            “Really? So you didn’t abandon me for some girl then?”

            “How did you…”

            “You did! Haha, and I was only guessing. Who is she?”

            “Okay, I’ll admit, I was with Scheherazade, but not like that.”

            “You admit it do you?”

            “Well… yes.”

            “What’s to admit? What are you worried about?”

            “It’s not that I’m worried. It’s just…”

            “Poor man’s Annabell.”

            “Yes! I mean… not exactly.”

            “Stop being a prick and tap that ass.”

 

*

 

            This afternoon Ed got bored and came to me with demands that we restart the adventuring.

            “Sorry Ed. I’ve just got too much on at the moment.” I replied.

            “That’s a lame excuse.”

            “It’s not an excuse, it’s the truth. We can’t all go off on random jaunts all the time.”

            “You mean you won’t. You can; we’ve all got free will.”

            “Fine. I won’t. It’s all an illusion anyway…”

Social Gravity

          My day started with a careless driving case. It was a tedious waste of my time. I had far more important paperwork to be doing. I’m inundated at the moment. In a flash of foolish enthusiasm I declared my intention to work hard from now on to my clerks. They have buried me under a mountain of Defences and Particulars of Claim and written Advices.

            I was meant to meet Ed for a drink this evening but had to cancel and so at eight o’clock this evening I was still hard at work in Chambers when to my surprise Scheherazade came through the door.

            She asked me to go for a drink with her, and though I still had some work to do, I could scarcely refuse the plaintive request of a maiden apparently in distress.

            She had just been on a terrible date. Terrible because she had wanted it to work so badly and the guy just wasn’t bothered. She spent the whole of the first drink trying to work out if she should text him, and if so, how. We went through some alternative wordings but in the end she gave up and decided that The Rules dictated that she give him some space. In the end, I saw only loneliness in her, and I was drawn to it as though she and I were drops of water colliding on our journey down a window pane – drawn into the same pre-determined path set down by the multitudes that had passed that way before us.

 

            Social gravity prevents deviation.

 

            …and so it prevented my full affection for Scheherazade. As much as I began to like her I could only think of what others would say and I fear it would be “Have you seen his new girlfriend? Just like the old one isn’t she? But somehow slightly less. Less pretty, less successful, just less.”

            The thoughts of others matter, sadly, and I can’t simply respond to whims of fancy. A relationship with a girl I work with is not to be undertaken lightly, and especially not on a whim.

Scheherazade

            “So, how’s single life treating you then?” asked Scheherazade.

            I met her in Chambers this evening and we agreed to have a drink. Scheherazade is a couple of years older than me, aiming for 30, but looking good nonetheless. She’s a society girl who’s just below the critical wealth line: not quite enough money to live without working. Nonetheless, she doesn’t have to work too hard, and often takes days off to watch the polo or attend the weddings of minor foreign royalties on yachts in the Mediterranean.

            In response to her question, all I could think of was Evelyn and Maya. “It’s okay.” I said.

            “Any exciting dates lined up?”

            “Nothing really.” In truth, I knew her question to be one of those asked in the hope of a return play. “You?”

            “There is this one guy… he’s good looking and sweet, but ever so young.”

            “How young?”

            “Twenty-five.”

            “That’s barely younger than me!”

            She blinked and looked at me, as though noticing my shape and form for the first time. “That’s true. I hadn’t really thought of that before.” She paused and her expression changed. “But it’s too young. He won’t be ready to marry for years!”

            Internally I spat out my pint and laughed. Externally I asked, “Is that really a problem? Don’t you just want to enjoy being young and let time tell who the right person is?”

            “Oh! Do you think that would work? Wouldn’t it be ever so lovely?” She seemed pleased by my idea, as though it were ever so novel.

            “Haven’t we all got the freedom and time to make the choices that are right for us? Marriage isn’t so important is it?”

            “No! You’re so absolutely right Tommy!” Her blue eyes sparkled and she flicked back her hair. “Yes. Love is the only thing worth all this isn’t it?” She was getting quite into it now. “In fact, I think I’ll call him right this minute. I’ve left him nearly two and a half days since his last message to me; the timing is perfect! Must obey the rules of dating mustn’t we?” She smiled broadly and dialled a number on her phone.

            Shortly she ended the call and squealed with delight. “I’m going to meet him right now. Oh, Tom, you’re ever so lovely! I do hope everything works out for you. You’re just bound to meet such a sweet girl soon!”

            I was left alone to finish my pint and ponder the rules.