The Proximity of Time

“If you can look into the seeds of time

And say which grain will grow and which will not,

Speak then to me…”

- Macbeth, Act I, Scene 3, Shakespeare

 

          Last night we had dinner by the window, looking out over the low lying island to the see. It had been a warm day so a window remained open and the sea breeze poured through for some time until it became too cold and somebody closed it. We all remarked on the pleasure of escaping London to something so different. I sat with my back to the window, and as the sun lowered in the sky I could the reflection of its rays in Sharona’s green eyes.

            As the sun set live music began. As if from nowhere several of the locals materialised in a group around the piano and began playing one at a time, each joining in with the rhythm and melody of those already playing. They had a selection of instruments between them and they all joined in, some content just to shake a tambourine. They went on like this for half an hour, organically iterating and expanding upon random fluctuations.

            “Why don’t you join them?” Ed suggested to Sharona.

            “It’s not really my style,” she replied, uncharacteristically shy.

            “Well, I’m not sure it’s that good anyway,” he said.

            “How can you say that?” I asked. “It suits its environment, don’t you think? What does it mean for a piece of music to be ‘good’ anyway?”

            “Some arrangements of sound are more pleasing than others,” he replied, “but I’ll admit it’s all subjective.”

            “That’s a bit of a cop out isn’t it? Surely it’s possible to objectively assess the aesthetics of music?”

            “What do you think, Sharona?”

            “I think you boys should try talking in plain English for a moment.”

            “I will if you will!” Ed replied.

            “Very funny,” she said. “For what it’s worth, I agree that music must be critiqued within its context.”

            We turned back to the music for a while. Whatever its dispassionate value might have been, it was certainly entertaining to watch, and soon we were as merry as could be.

            “My love’s cup is always full,” Sharona joked, quoting a line from the very song that brought us here.

 

*

 

            This morning we went to the Hut of Shadows. This is a rather unexpected piece of ‘modern art’ far off the beaten track, down by the sea. It is literally a little stone hut. Once inside, the three of us followed a narrow curved passage emerging into a small chamber with a pinhole in the far wall. The place was very still and we all sat down on the floor, by the walls, as though commanded by some invisible force. Eventually our eyes adjusted to the dark and suddenly we saw two stone seats protruding from the wall. Sharona and I got up and sat in them. Suddenly a living, moving world snapped into sharp relief on the wall opposite. We both gasped simultaneously. The whole room was like one giant camera obscura, projecting the world outside onto the wall in front of us. We could see individual waves lapping the shore!

            I looked across at Sharona and saw, to my surprise, a tear glistening in her eye.

            “How on earth does that work?” Ed wondered.

           

*

 

            In the afternoon we visited the Teampull Na Trionaid (Trinity Temple). It was originally founded by the daughter of a great warrior in the 13^th century. It was very peaceful there.

            Sharona kept squeezing my hand. We wondered about the place, looking at the random gravestones littered about the place.

            “I’m so happy!” said Sharona, ever comfortable around the morbid. “These adventures were the best thing you ever thought of Tom.”

            “I thought of it!” exclaimed Ed.

            “Isn’t the proximity of time incredible?” I said, ignoring Ed’s outburst. “It’s like a fold in space across the fifth dimension. As though our four dimensional space were a flatland – a two dimensional table top from which we might jump up and easily step through, ignoring all boundaries. This could be anytime we chose.”

            We sat amongst the ruins in silence for a while, Ed allowing himself to close his eyes and drift. Sharona and I rose and walked across to the beach. We sat down, just watching the water lapping the shore. I was at perfect peace then. I only wished I really could’ve lived in another time, a simple time of limited choice.

            “Don’t you think, Tom, that life could never be better than it is right now?”

            I hesitated. “You’re right, Sharona, I could never do better than this.” But I was scared to have said it, uncertain somehow, for I’d heard the words before, in another time, another world.

The Kite

“Everyone believes himself a priori to be perfectly free, even in his individual actions, and thinks that at every moment he can commence another manner of life… But a posteriori, through experience, he finds to his astonishment that he is not free, but subjected to necessity, that in spite of all his resolutions and reflections he does not change his conduct, and that from the beginning of his life to the end of it, he must carry out the very character which he himself condemns.” – Arthur Schopenhauer.

 

 

          “What do you think of Alice?” I asked Sharona this morning.

            “We’ll never be sisters, I’m afraid!” she said.

            “Why not?” I was slightly surprised. “Don’t you think she’s lovely?”

            Sharona raised an eyebrow. “Yes.”

            “Well then?”

            “It just wouldn’t work.”

           

*

 

            The three of us started talking about the other Brighton-inspired adventure – Naïve by the Kooks.

            “I always thought they were singing ‘she knows that I’m not from the law school’.” I said.

            “You egocentric bastard,” said Ed.

            We listened to the song carefully. Sharona liked the line ‘Hold on to your kite’ so we decided to go buy a kite and walk up to Hampstead Heath.

 

*

 

            It was surprisingly easy to find a kite and in no time at all we were up there trying to make it fly. Ed wouldn’t allow anyone else on the controls so Sharona and I grabbed the thing and ran out over the heath, trying to catch the wind. Eventually it leapt out of ours hands in a gust and soared into the sky.

            It was a beautiful warm day and so Sharona and I lay down in the grass by Ed’s side whilst he tried tricks in the sky with the kite. Each time he achieved one trick he moved on and tried something more complex. Sharona and I gazed up at the kite entranced as it cut one figure after another in the blue.

            “It’s beautiful,” said Sharona.

            “It’s random,” I replied.

            “No,” said Ed, “it’s controlled by these strings. I make those patterns.”

            “Those strings, and the wind,” said Sharona, “but those gusts of wind are beyond your control, Ed.”

            “Really though,” I said, “the movements are ordained by the kite’s shape, and that never changes. It’s destined to move that way.”

            A man was running up the hill towards us. As he arrived by our side he paused, panting. He had his headphones in.

            “Excuse me!” shouted Ed.

            “Can I help you?” the man asked.

            “What’re you listening to?”

            “Philosophy, by Ben Folds. Why?”

            “Just curious, thanks!”

 

*

 

            Back at the home we had a relaxing evening but Ed kept glancing at me in an odd fashion. He seemed agitated. Eventually I went into my room, leaving Sharona and Ed alone in the living room. Ed followed me quickly.

            “Mate,” he said, “I’m not sure about all this.”

            “Meaning what?”

            “Meaning her, Sharona.”

            “What about her?”

            “I just don’t think it’s working out, us all hanging out.”

            “Ed, what are you talking about? She’s great!” 

            “Yes, but she is an adventure, she’s not an adventurer. She’s not one of us, Tom.”

            I frowned. I couldn’t think of anything to say. My stomach knotted. I realised I really didn’t want to risk things with Sharona. I was just beginning to let her into my system; I couldn’t lose her now. I had to have more time to work out if… things could work out.

Ed watched me thinking and then walked away.

The Pixie, The Imp and The Devil

            We strolled into the bar last night feeling like a million dollars. The girls were together, dressed in graceful backless dresses, long waved hair falling about their shoulders. We took a table and ordered drinks. I took another look at Sharona and noticed that her dress was made of black velvet, and that she wore a single white rose pinned to it. I leant across to a passing waiter and ordered drinks for the girls who hadn’t yet noticed us. On receiving the drinks they came across.

            Ed and Miranda embraced, while Sharona and I stood apart, looking at one another.

            “Does the rose ever blossom?” she asked me, at length.

            “The answer to your question is but a dream away.”

            “But what if the rose stays closed, the petals too scared to unfold?”

            “Then we’ll know that black velvet is as choking as the unknown it portrays.”

            Sharona smiled prettily and nodded to me in deference. We turned to the others and noted their slack jaws with amusement. I took Sharona’s hand and drew her back from the table, before bringing back the chair and seating her. The other two sat too, in silence, watching us. Sharona winked at me and normality resumed.

            After a short time the girls went to perform. Miranda accompanied Sharona on the piano. The two of us watched them with real pride, basking in our circumstances. We barely needed to exchange a word. When Sharona returned to me at the end I again wondered ‘why’, but put it to the back of my mind this time.

            I asked Sharona about Miranda. She simply said they’d been best friends for years, since they met playing music at an early stage. Sharona then asked me about Ed. I told her I couldn’t back him for fidelity but she thought that was just fine. I hoped that opinion didn’t reflect her own attitudes. After a moment’s knotted brows I got a grip and bought another round. In a moment of madness I then invited Sharona to dance. I think perhaps she was surprised that I could, but we moved gracefully enough and soon she was laughing.

            “You know what they say about a man who can dance.” she said.

            And before the others could blink we were outside in the alley, Sharona on her knees before me, my cock in her mouth. It was a hell of a kick, seeing a girl dressed like her, so classy, in that scene.

            She stopped after a few moments and left me burning. She pushed me back against the wall and stepped away, running her fingers slowly half way up her thigh, showing me just so much, then leaned in.

            “Come with me,” she whispered. She led me to another graveyard in the city, magnificent and gothic. We could barely keep our hands off each other as we jumped over the fence and penetrated the dark depths of the place. Sharona moved with direction and took me to a crypt. She opened the stone doors and we actually entered the place. Down below we found an altar and she lay upon it, legs paired together and flexed at the knees. Her black velvet dress slipped down her smooth thighs and I went to her then, at that moment. Just as though I were falling from a great height I couldn’t pause for thought; I fucked her as though the laws of physics demanded it.

 

*

 

            I woke gently this morning to the smell of bacon.

            “My turn,” she said, smiling. I ate and she watched me. “Why did you come to me?” she asked, at length.

            “Why is your name Sharona?” I replied.

            “How did you know my name before I gave it?”

            “It’s written in our story.” I laughed.

            “What story?”

            “The story of us in the infinite library of Babylon.”

            She smiled. “What’s the story called?”

            “My Sharona.” I stopped eating for a moment and looked at her. “Why is your name Sharona?”

            “My Papa gave it to me. He wanted me to have a distinctive name. He told me that with a name like mine…” I began to gently caress her exposed midriff, the soft flesh between the ribs and the hips, “…I could always expect fate to come and mix up my life. He said that fate is a Pixie of no alignment and that she would as easily shower me with fortune as misery. He told me he could wish for nothing more than experience for me: good or bad. Anything more than ordinary…” my hand began to wander further up, and further down, “…and so he named me Sharona as a siren call to the Pixie.”

            “But is the Pixie in your mind? Is she your own Pixie, or is she Pixie to us all?”

            “Both!” She giggled.

            “I like that. I believe in your Pixie Sharona. It was in fact your father’s siren call that brought me here. Your very name, Sharona, called me from England on the wings of the Pixie, just as your father predicted.” I explained the adventures.

            “So a song told you to find me?” she said, at the end.

            “Yes.”

            “When you hear the lyrics, how do you know what to do next?”

            “Ed tells me, once the Imp of the Perverse in his mind has given counsel.”

            Sharona gently drew in breath as my finger traced the outlines of her breasts.

            “That’s very trusting of you.”

            “Very. Sometimes I doubt the wisdom.”

            “And what did Ed tell you to do with me?” she asked, playfully, and the whole thing broke down. We submitted to the Devil of Lust.

            Some time later she lay on top of me, the length of her body pressed into mine. She leant over me and her hair fell about us, shielding us from the world outside. We lay in mingled breath and gaze.

            “What now, Tom?” she whispered.

            I was destroyed.  I had to bite my lip. I wanted to ask her to come back to England with me. I was frightened of the idea.

            “Come with me,” I choked, and whispered.

            “Again?” she replied, and winked. Then her eyes softened slightly and she kissed me tenderly. I knew it was an acceptance of my meaning.

            And so much more.

 

*

 

            Sharona packed in less than two hours. I dared not ask how long she planned to join me but she declared straight away that she would let the flat go. She resolved to leave the remainder of her stuff with Miranda around the corner and so we left to speak to her.

            Miranda let us in and it became apparent that Ed was there, the sly dog! We told them our plans and they both looked mortified. I was worried about Ed’s reaction to the news: I’d thought he’d have been happy for me.

            An awkward moment followed in which Ed and Miranda looked at one another, each apparently wondering if they ought to follow our lead. The tension held for a few moments until they comically broke down in shared relied, agreeing that they were just fine on their own.

            The afternoon progressed. Ed and Miranda helped us move Sharona’s stuff into Miranda’s storage cupboards though they both displayed a kind of unspoken resentment.

            “Is everything okay, Ed?” Sharona asked, after a while.

            “Just fine,” he muttered.

            “You must tell me,” she said, “if I’m coming with you I’ll do it on your terms, as well as Tom’s.”

            “Alright,” he replied.

            Sharona called her employers next, requesting time off and refusing to be drawn into specifics of it. She lost the tour guide job completely; I could hear the guy yelling down the phone. She didn’t appear the least bit fazed by it.

            By early evening the three of us were standing in the low sunshine, with our boots and packs on. We were ready, but amusingly enough hadn’t worked out where to go. In the end we went back to the hostel, booked transport for the following day, and another night’s stay.

            We’re about to go to bed now. The evening’s passed peacefully with a few shared hostel games and beers, Ed and Sharona getting to know one another.

            On the morrow a new chapter of my life begins.

A Whim

          I burst out of bed this morning and ran out of the Youth Hostel without waking Ed. I’d had a dream and needed to act before it slipped away. I found the nearest florist and bought a single white rose with a simple white card. On the card I wrote:

 

‘At mid-night I dreamt of a perfect white pearl of a rose lying upon an endless ocean of black velvet’

 

            I ran all the way to Sharona’s house and tied the rose and card to the wooden keystone in her porch. I kissed the rose gently before stepping back, watching the silent house, before jogging back to the hostel.

            Back at the hostel I took breakfast up to Ed and he woke to it delighted.

            “It’s going to be a beautiful day, Ed.”

 

*

 

            Once we were both ready for the day we went to the Audubon Zoo. We spent some time wandering about and looking at all the hot and languid creatures until we passed a payphone. Ed stopped and made a quick call.

            “I’m seeing Miranda tonight,” he said, coming back over.

            “Yes.”

            “And Sharona will be there.”

            “I know.”

            “?”

            “Fate, Ed, just like I said.”

            “And like I told you, Tom, a real man makes his own luck, and a real friend makes it for his best mate too.” He patted me on the back affectionately. “Now, there’s a further part to this plan: style. We’re going to see the girls perform, so we need to look like proper men.” He raised a knowing eyebrow at me. “And Miranda told me so.”

            “Since when do you ever do what a girl says?”

            “It’s a whim,” he said, and winked at me.

 

*

 

            We left the zoo and went to a fine looking tailor in central New Orleans. We took two splendid bespoke suits after an hour and a half of fitting. Ed chose cream and I had navy. We finished them off with plain white open fronted shirts.

            They weren’t cheap and I wasn’t entirely sure where Ed got the money. He always gives the impression of poverty, yet produces money whenever required.

            So we’re all set and ready for tonight, and I know it’s going to be perfect.

The Library of Babylon

          “So, what’re you going to do about Sharona, Tom?” Ed asked me today.

            “Nothing,” I replied, calmly.

            “Yes. I like it mate: a bit of playing it hard to get, treat ‘em mean ‘n’ all that.”

            I said nothing, but simply smiled. Ed was slightly perturbed.

            “You do like her though, right?”

            “There’s no one else.”

            “Good, I’d’ve been doing no picking up of soap for you otherwise. Right, well, I see the tactic you’re taking there, and I do appreciate its merit – it’s truly one of my favourites – but we’re slightly running out of time here. We can’t hang about forever.”

            “Really, Ed?”

            “Oh yes. Very clever. We woke up in each other’s bodies this morning did we? Come on, I’m just trying to help you, this girl is too special to screw up.”

            “It’s okay Ed, relax, fate will bring us back together if we just let it.”

 

*

 

            So while we waited for fate Ed taught me a few chords on the guitar and then I got stuck into Labyrinths, the book Sharona gave me. I’m half way through it now and will get back to it in a moment, but I have to briefly mention one story. It’s called the Library of Babylon. It describes an infinite library made up of adjacent octagonal rooms. In each room are hundreds of books, all exactly as long as one another, several hundred pages. Each book is a unique combination of random characters such that the library contains every possible combination exactly once. Therefore, for those that inhabit the library there must be, somewhere out there, a book that exactly describes their lives, past, present and future. Does this mean their lives are pre-ordained?

Sharona

          At 8.30pm last night we gathered with a group of other tourists under the imposing skyline of St. Louis Cathedral. The evening sky was perfectly pink behind the steeple. All at once Sharona appeared from between the large oak entrance doors.

            “Wow,” said Ed, and he wasn’t talking about the ambience. “There she is. That is Sharona.”

            I looked at him carefully and paused for thought. “Listen carefully, Ed, and look at me as I say this to you,” I began, narrowing my eyes. “Sharona is my adventure.”

            Ed regarded me solemnly for a moment and then nodded soberly, before turning back to watch Sharona.

            “Hi there everybody! Can you all gather in a little closer please?” And who were we to refuse? “That’s better. Let me introduce myself. I’m your guide for this evening and my name’s Millarca.” She pronounced ‘Millarca’ as ‘Meyarka’.

            Ed raised an eyebrow at me but I wasn’t worried by the name. I’ve read Sheridan LeFanu. I was more concerned with the appearance of this black angel. She presented herself in the Elvira style, but less 80s. She had on a long black leather coat half hiding a black dress trailing down only as far as her mid-thigh. She had soft flapped black leather boots most of the way up her calves. Her black hair ran down on all sides of her body in a cultured mess. Her skin, surprisingly for one so dressed, was darkly tanned. I could hardly take my eyes off her for the duration of the tour.

            It was a great tour, though perhaps I’m biased, but I can say with certainty that she captivated her audience with confidence and easy charm. I recall only one of her many stories very well. She described a vampire in New Orleans from 400 years ago, around the time of colonial rule. This vampire had been sired alone in his house and had lain for days without understanding his conversion. He had become slowly hungrier and hungrier for blood until suddenly he killed his maid and pierced her neck, drinking straight from the jugular. Sharona described his hunger and subsequent satisfaction with incredible colour and emotion.

            At the end Sharona invited all the guests to join her in the pub for further questions and a friendly chat. Every man on the tour dragged their wives, girlfriends and daughters along but after a long hour, filled with many foolish questions, there were only three of us left with her: the two of us and some other middle aged bloke. We’d been sitting across from her table, nursing a couple of pints at the bar. At this stage we stood and made our way to the table. Sharona spotted us coming and cast her eyes slowly over me. The act paralysed me, as though she really had vampiric powers of mind control. Ed kicked me and we sat down.

            “Did you enjoy the tour?” she asked me.

            “Yes, most certainly, Carmilla.” I replied. Ed raised his eyebrow again and the other bloke looked briefly confused. Sharona knew exactly what I meant.

            “Fantastic! You know my real name!”

            “I thought your first name was Mircalla.” In the story of Carmilla the vampire she has to change her name every so often to avoid detection. She always uses anagrams of her first name, Mircalla. Sharona noted the comment with a slight, almost seductive, smile.

            “Okay, this has been fun,” said the bloke. “Can I getcha beer buddy?” he asked Ed.

            “Sure mate,” said Ed, and retired to the bar with a single wink of encouragement.

            Once alone we launched immediately into conspiratorial delight at an instant connection over so many subjects. With Sharona before me I couldn’t help but indulge in discussing all my darker gothic thoughts. It wasn’t morose or morbid, but intoxicating and beautiful.

            At some stage Ed and the other bloke must’ve left, though we didn’t notice. Sharona pointed it out but it didn’t seem a problem to me, and it was an observation on her part, rather than a suggestion.

            We discussed our respective jobs. She was quietly impressed by mine, but I didn’t know the half of it where she was concerned. She worked every night of the week, half the time as Millarca the tour guide, and the other half as a blues singer in a hotel bar.

            “To chance meetings,” she toasted.

            It was getting late. The pub was closing. Sharona took me by the hand and brought me to my feet. She did everything with such languorous ease that I could scarcely resist her slightest whim. On the outside of the pub we paused opposite one another. She had a black leather satchel thrown over one shoulder. Over the other I could see her waved hair trembling in the warm breeze. She suddenly laughed at me and broke into a run away from me.

            “Come on then!” she shouted behind her, and before I knew it I was running too.

            We came to a laughing, breathless stop a few minutes later, in a graveyard. After a few more I calmed down and became a little reflective, I’m ashamed to say. The surroundings jolted me slightly, but the mood wasn’t gone. We spent an hour there talking of eternal riddles: composition of the continuum, free will.

            At once I noticed how cold I’d become. I yearned for a bed and became worried. What if the hostel closed and shut me out? I told Sharona it was time to go and she appeared momentarily disappointed. Suddenly I thought of Annabell and in the same moment I became just a man standing in a graveyard with a girl. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

            I made to leave but Sharona caught me by the hand. I turned and she looked into my eyes. It was my move, but I couldn’t. I wanted to, but…

            “Your first name, Mircalla, is Sharona,” I said.

            She looked at me wonderingly, mouth slightly parted, and I walked away.

 

*

 

            And all that was only last night. I know I’ve already written a great deal, but, despite the ending, it was one of the most amazing nights of my life. This morning Ed filled me in on the remainder of his night. He’d played darts with the other bloke, aiming at dollar notes and keeping those that he hit.

            “So, when do you see her again then?” he asked me.

            “I’m not sure.”

            “Didn’t you sort anything out?”

            “I don’t have her number.”

            “What?”

            “It’s okay. This whole thing’s fated. It’ll work out, you wait and see.”

            “Are you alright, Evans?”

            “Seriously. This is destiny, for sure.”

            “I don’t know. A real man makes his own luck.”

            “Is that right, Ed?” I said, beginning to enjoy stalking on the other side of the fence. “But it is amazing, how a lark that starts with me hitting a girl outside a restaurant playing Britney Spears could lead me to this point.”

            “Wings of a butterfly mate. We’re just trying to flap them more than most.”

Sleeping with the Fishes

          This morning the Sharona-quest began in earnest.

            We looked online at the two girls’ profiles. One was still missing a picture, but in her profile she mentioned that she was a tour guide. We reckoned she’d therefore be easy enough to find. The other one, a hot blonde, has a fairly detailed diary. We carefully read through the last few weeks’ entries for clues. We discovered that she spends a huge amount of time at a few select locations: the mall, some café in town, the mall, a Bourbon Street club and… the mall. Her diary for today mentioned a rendezvous with the girls. We therefore decided to head for her favourite spot, The Shops at Canal Place.

            An hour later we were wandering about in the said mall, realising that this was in many ways a rather stupid way to go about things. It’s not exactly a movie, we’re not just going to bump into her… We went to a few shop clerks and showed them pictures we’d printed out. Eventually one of them actually did recognise her, and confirmed she’d been there in the last half hour. Ed got very excited at this point, believing himself a true Philip Marlowe.

            Despite this minor success we didn’t know where next to head, so we decided to sit in an open café in the mall and have lunch. We discussed what on earth I’d actually say if we did find her.

            “Go with your heart,” Ed told me.

            After lunch we decided we had to move on, perhaps try again another day with better clues. Ed noticed that we were next to the Aquarium and we went to check it out. Being on the estuary front it had been badly struck by Katrina. It lost 10,000 fish! It is recovering pretty well now though, and is open for business.

            We wandered about looking at various turtles and sharks until we came to a rather spectacular underwater tunnel. As I was gaping at the underside of a stingray Ed suddenly cracked me in the ribs with his elbow.

            “What the hell?” I asked. Ed pointed along the corridor. I looked and saw Sharona!

            “Wow,” I said, “that’s lucky.”

            “It’s fate,” Ed replied. “Now exercise your free will.”

            We sidled up to her and looked into the same part of the tank as her.

            “Hi!” I said, with forced brightness. Suddenly a giant of a man took a step closer to her and looked at me angrily. He must’ve been a college football player or something.

            “Er… Hi,” she replied.

            “Pretty aren’t they, Sharona?” I said, using her name to see what would happen.

            “You know this guy Shar?” said the bloke.

            “No!” she replied, with earnest honesty.

            “How’d you know her name then buddy?” he said to me, squaring up.

            “Her MySpace site, I recognise her.”

             “MySpace? Shar?”

            “Like, I dunno!” she replied. “What’s My…Space?” she added, fake-moronically.

            “Okay buddy,” the guy started again, facing me, “I don’t know what your game is but you’ll be sleeping with the fishes if you don’t fuck off.” A few kids looked over but he was just laughing at his terribly funny bon mot.

            “Alright mate,” I said, then turned to Sharona. “Sharona, fate brought me all the way here from London to see you. If that means anything then take your space and let me know.”

            The bloke didn’t take kindly to this continued communication. He grabbed me by the t-shirt. “I’m gonna knock you dead for that,” he said.

            “No, you won’t,” said Ed, suddenly appearing at my side. “Put my friend down, right now.”

            The two of them stared hard at one another, neither blinking. Eventually the bloke let go of me and we left quietly.

 

*

 

            Back at the hostel I found myself a little shaken by the confrontation. I couldn’t help but admire Ed’s bravery but I wondered if all this was so sensible.

            “What did you expect?” asked Ed, noting my mood. “This sort of thing is bound to happen occasionally when social conventions are pushed.”

            “Hmmmm,” I replied, and sat musing for a while. “I wonder if she’ll get back to me on MySpace.”

            “I don’t think so mate, she’s plainly an air head, and that hint of yours was way too subtle.”

            I think perhaps I’ll try and have a quiet one tonight.

Finding Sharona

“Free will. It’s like butterfly wings: once touched, they never get off the ground. No, I only set the stage, you pull your own strings.”

 – John Milton, The Devil’s Advocate.

 

            “Mate, did you get their number before we were kicked out last night?” Ed said to me, his opening gambit this morning. “Stay, while you’re at it, how did we get home last night, and, finally, why do I have a leaf in my hair?”

            “No; the bus; and… I’ve no idea, maybe you went out sleepwalking.”

            “Always the one with the boring answers eh? I’ll admit it, the leaf was just for effect, I picked it up from the windowsill. The question: what next?”

            “I’m going back to bed,” I said, and I did.

 

*

 

            I woke up a few hours later to the sound of Ed bursting through my door.

            “I’ve got it!” he exclaimed. “We’re going to find Sharona!”

            “What?”

            “That was the last song last night – My Sharona. We’re going to go find her.”

            “How? Who is she?”

            “Not she, exactly, just a Sharona. We’ll search MySpace and locate one. It’s destiny mate, romance and fate. What’s to think about? Anything has to be better than living your current pathetic single humiliating life.”

            “Thanks for that,” I said. “I’m not convinced,” I said. But I got out of bed and went to the computer with him.

            We looked up My Sharona on Google first and were amazed to discover that The Knack wrote their song about a real girl called Sharona. Moreover, the Sharona, Sharona Alperin, is still very much alive and kicking. Incredibly she’s capitalised on the situation and started a real estate company for rich professionals and stars. Her website even mentions the effect of the song on her life! Smart girl.

            We loaded up MySpace and searched simply for ‘Sharona’. In England there were two pages of hits. We quickly established that these were completely unacceptable. They were either too old, too young or just plain revoltingly ugly. Ed had the predictable urge to require my attendance to one of the totally inappropriate options but I reminded him of his selling stance of ‘destiny and romance’. He allowed my objection and we turned to America, reasoning that the Sharona population there would be rather more extensive. We were right. There were 46 pages of them. We spent some time going through them and eliminating possibilities. Eventually we located two close together in New Orleans. One of them had very scant details on her site, but seemed interesting, despite the lack of a picture. The second was just plain hot.

            “Alright,” said Ed, “that’s that sorted then. When do we leave?”

I Write Sins, Not Tragedies

          I woke up very confused this morning. Ed and I were both up early, somehow disaffected and unable to remain lying about in bed. I told him all about my date last night. It sounds a disaster, I know, but on the other hand… she’s got the money, the class and the credentials to make a respectable partner.

            “That’s all very well, Tom, but the whole thing’s just not quite right is it? It’s no different to the Annabell debacle really, is it? Right stats; wrong heart. Honestly, Tom, there’s more to you than these girls can perceive. You need someone deeper.”

            “You can’t compare Fiona to Annabell!” I said, outraged.

            ̶