[ 6 ]

GETTING USED TO YOU

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Track of the day: Magnetised - Tom Odell

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“Have you ever thought to yourself that you’re meant to do something more—be something more?”

Irene takes a moment to answer. She looks up at the dark sky, the littered stars a faint vision, overshadowed by the too bright of a glow of the street lamps. It’s a strange wonder how Irene somehow only gets to talk to Wendy at night. How their conversations only seem to go anywhere when there’s hardly anyone around and Irene is surrounded only by the dark, the artificial lights and the white moon up in the night sky.

“I guess. Is that why you quit studying? To find that bigger purpose?”

Wendy takes a long drag of her cigarette, then exhales before she replies, “Yeah. A bigger purpose.”

Irene has gotten used to it now. To the smell of the cigarette, to the short, vague answers. It’s been days, now turned to months, since they had first met. Weeks since the carnival, days since the winter break. Walking home together every Wednesday night – if Wendy performs – has become a habitual routine. She more or less has gotten acquainted with Wendy, through these times, although understanding her, Irene believes, is still a long way off.

Irene picks off the loose pieces of wool from her gloves. She wonders what Wendy was referring to. That bigger purpose. Just what was it? Then she wonders really now, thinking back on the talks that revolve around Wendy; how these rumours seem to be nothing more but lies. False truths.

“Will you believe my words?”

They echo within Irene, within her memory. There is a part of her that wants to believe in Wendy, in this girl that is leaning on the lamp post as she takes a whiff of her cigarette. Yet somehow, there is another part of her that wants to stay away, to stay behind the line that Wendy herself drew, despite the countless conversations they have had.

The smoke lingers in the air, diffusing slowly and before it dissipates, Wendy speaks, “How long are you planning on working at the pub?”

Irene glances at Wendy then at the guitar case that is strapped on her back. The strings as Wendy strummed them earlier tonight still reverberated within Irene. Irene doesn’t think it is possible that she’d be more impressed at what Wendy can do, but here she is, still taken aback by Wendy’s surprising capabilities.

“As long as I can. I need the money.”

Wendy smiles, the cigarette ash falling on the asphalt floor. “You’re just like me then.”

“In some ways.”

“You like writing, I suppose? Hence, a literature major? You haven’t really answered me last time.”

Irene nods, gradually. It’s a long, unsure nod. It is as if Irene isn’t sure whether to answer Wendy when Wendy is cloaking herself so calmly, enveloping herself with a shroud of mystery as usual, with her short, open-ended responses. Does the give and take principle apply here?

Wendy doesn’t say anything. She just stands there, leaning on the lamp post, looking at Irene, asking for further explanation. Perhaps, Wendy is playing that game right now: One question. One answer.

Irene continues, anyhow. Irene can be a talker when need be. She talks and urges when she wants to and right now, she wants to. She wants to talk to Wendy, to get to know her more. “It’s…” she pauses, trying to grasp the right words, “…relieving. It’s a moment where I can take a breather and just step back from reality.”

“Ah,” Wendy says, sounding more like a note than a word. “An escape.” There is a smirk on the edges of her lips. Irene notices it and wonders what it means.

Wendy puts out her cigarette with the sole of her boots, placing the rest of it in her coat pocket. She sits beside Irene, putting her guitar at the side of the bench. As Wendy relaxes, her hand drops to her side and it brushes Irene’s fingers accidentally. Irene flusters at the small contact, feeling a tingle that she moves her hand away almost immediately as if she has pricked herself with something.

Wendy raises an eyebrow. “You okay?”

“Y-Yeah, I’m fine,” Irene says, scooting farther from Wendy. She clasps her hands together, rubbing them in a pretence of warming them up. “S-So, you like singing, I suppose? Hence, a performer?”

Wendy smiles again. It’s a sight that Irene wants to get used to, but can’t. Every time Wendy smiles, there’s a new aura that gets exuded. Different each time. This time, a dimple shows itself on her right cheek. “It’s…” She looks at Irene now, intently, leaning closer that Irene stiffens at the sudden intimacy. “…my escape.”

Irene holds her breath. It’s not the first time and definitely not the last; it’s one of the many times she has. It seems that holding her breath is another thing she needs getting used to.

Irene swallows the lump that has formed in . An alarm, in peculiar timing, rings inside her head causing words to come out so suddenly that she doesn’t even register what she has said until it is too late.

“Do you like me?”

Wendy blinks and leans back, putting distance between her and Irene. “Pardon?”

Realisation hits and Irene covers . Damn it. Wendy is looking again, waiting, asking for an answer. But what can Irene say? She doesn’t mean it. Spur of the moment. That’s what it was. Irene drops her hands to her sides. Damn it. Just damn it.

“You heard me. I-I mean—you’re always being like this. Playful, dare I say, flirty at times. And you like to invade my space,” Irene says firmly.

Wendy remains quiet and Irene isn’t sure if it is because Wendy is deep in thought, trying to rationalise everything or that she simply has nothing to say.

Irene feels embarrassment settle in her cheeks but she pushes through it. There’s no point beating around the bush. Not tonight. “So…” Irene leans in this time, sure and resolute, “…do you like me?”

Wendy chuckles, stands up and reaches for the cigarette in her pocket. She grabs her lighter and lights it before replying, the cigarette still in between her lips. “Why does it matter?”

Irene stays adamant. “That’s not how the game works. One question, one answer. Do you like me?”

Wendy smirks and Irene can sense that she has won this, has the control in this situation. Wendy takes out the cigarette from her lips, keeps it in between her fingers when she says, quite assertively, “I like you, sure, as a person.”

Irene feels something jump in her chest.

Ba-dump.

Is that supposed to happen right now?

“But,” Wendy turns around, still standing, and faces Irene. “Not in that way.”

Irene knits her brows. “What do you mean?”

“I’m saying you’re not that bad of a person.”

“I’m not that bad of a person?”

Wendy puts back the cigarette in her lips, takes a whiff and then blows out a cloud of smoke. “Yeah, you’re not bad.”

“I don’t understand.” Irene is a bit confused, a bit frustrated, a bit mad. “Why do you do those things then? Playing around, being so…so—being too casual, too intimate?”

Wendy is taking this too casually, way too casual for Irene’s liking. “Because I want to.”

“Huh? You’re not making any sense.”

Wendy doesn’t take a drag this time. Instead, she lets the cigarette hang in between her fingers, a thin trail of smoke leaving its lit end. “Why are you asking me this all of a sudden? Maybe you like me.”

“Excuse me?”

The veil is there. Irene knows it. Wendy is avoiding the question by answering it cryptically, twisting and turning the words, the answers to questions. She dodges it, reflects it and traps Irene into a corner. Wendy traps Irene into a corner.

“One question, one answer, remember? You heard me. Do you like me?”

Irene thinks she has gotten used to it now; to Wendy’s actions, her responses, her way of being clever with her words. So she echoes Wendy’s words: “I like you, sure, as a person.”

Irene wonders if her words do something to Wendy, if they affect her in some way, the same way Wendy’s words affect Irene. Irene wonders and wonders. Behind Wendy’s unreadable expression and that mischievous smirk, Irene continues to wonder.

“Look—”

“But, not in that way,” Irene lies.

 * * *

The rays of the spring sunshine peek themselves from the blinds on Wendy’s window. Specks of dust float about giving the room a musty feel about it, as if it has been decrepit and abandoned for quite some time, though Wendy has been living here for a while now.

Wendy walks towards the phone, the flashing red light an indication that someone has been calling her continuously. She knows who it is but she presses the button anyway and listens to the messages.

Hey, it’s me. I know I don’t have the right but I’m just worried. I heard you dropped out of uni. Tell me it’s not because of what happened…between us. It’ll be nice if we could meet up and talk sometime. Please call me back.

Beep.

Wendy takes her filled ashtray and dumps the used cigarettes in the bin.

Beep.

Hi, it’s me again. I’m really worried. Maybe I shouldn’t have done that. You know, I’m sor—

Wendy grips the pulled out phone cord tightly in her hand – now a fist. Her brows furrow as she winces, looking to be in deep pain. She closes her eyes and she can see them: their once held hands; their once shared laughter; their once sweet pecks; the smell of freshly cut grass as they lay there lost in the azure sky, in the clouds shaped by their imagination. Memories from early autumn of last year, now nothing more but bile that piles up in . She winces, hates that it happens every time she hears her voice.

The pain settles for a moment. A temporary numbness that Wendy takes advantage of, opening her eyes, finding the murky light too bright, and she grabs her keys and heads straight for the door.

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It takes a bit of getting used to, trying to find the rhythm of going to lectures, of studying, and working. But Irene knows just how to do it. When it comes to studying, she knows her way well, sticking to the schedule on her monthly planner.

Saturday nights are usually for grocery shopping, if Joy doesn’t drag her along to another one of the parties she finds herself ending up into. Irene heads to the big supermarket in town and buys her weekly necessities: food and some toiletries. She prefers to go after she has done some studying in the library, when the library has closed for the day.

Irene holds them on her hands now, plastic bags of vegetables and fruits and meat. A bit heavy but she can manage. The walk from the store to her house is not that far, anyway. A rough ten to fifteen minutes. She is used to its distance.

What Irene is not used to, however, is the sight of Wendy tonight at the underground walkway as Irene reaches it on her way home. What she is not used to is the sight of Wendy with a bottle of alcohol instead of the usual cigarette.

Wendy staggers. Step by step, she sways. She uses the walls as support then she takes a chug of her beer every now and then. Irene watches from a short distance, observing Wendy. She takes a step closer then hesitates, pulling back.

“Wendy’s trouble.”

“I like you, sure, as a person. But, not in that way.”

Irene holds the bags firmly. She continues to watch as Wendy walks with unsteady steps. The only time Irene has seen Wendy be unsteady in the time they have known each other – if one even considers it as so.

Step. Step. Chug.

Step. Step. Chug.

Irene follows. Each step, each chug. She watches and follows. And it is only when they have passed the underground walkway, when Wendy has stumbled into a bush, that Irene forgets the hesitation and approaches Wendy in an instant, grabbing her arm as she pulls her out of it.

“Hey, are you alright?”

Wendy’s eyes are barely open, sluggish as they blink at times, and her smile a little bit loopy. The dimple is still there, quite fascinatingly, and Irene feels her cheeks flush as she notices it.

“Are you okay?” Irene asks once more when Wendy gives her nothing but a dopey grin. Irene catches glimpse of the scratches on Wendy’s cheek and neck, most likely from the bush she has fallen into and it is enough of an answer for her.

Irene takes the bottle of beer from Wendy’s hand and places it at the side of the sidewalk. She heaves a sigh and puts Wendy’s arm around her shoulder, supporting her weight, as they start to walk in the direction of Irene’s house.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

The distance between them is almost non-existent. Irene can smell the alcohol from Wendy’s breath, the faint smell of her shampoo as her hair tickled Irene’s ear. No cigarettes this time. Just alcohol and shampoo; smells that Irene isn’t used to smelling from Wendy.

“What made you drink this much?”

Wendy doesn’t answer. She just lets out a soft, logy chuckle. Irene finds it silly that she thinks the sound of a drunk Wendy laughing is quite attractive, like music to her ears.

“Were you out with friends?”

Wendy hiccups this time. In between her soft, small laughs, she hiccups. Irene smiles at it, feeling something inside of her melt at the warmth of the sight, the situation.

They reach Irene’s house – a dormitory, really, and her house is nothing more but a room – after a while. Irene’s room is on the third floor so she carries Wendy along with her, still arm around her shoulder, with some struggle, as they head and eventually ride the lift. Wendy is still in a daze, drunk and unaware. The red numbers on the screen steadily going higher a digit.

When they have finally reached her room, Irene lets out a long sigh of relief, dropping Wendy down onto the bed. Wendy is still laughing gently, quietly, her eyes lethargic as if they are about to shut close soon.

“I really can’t believe I’m doing this.”

Irene reaches for Wendy’s leather jacket, taking it off by sitting Wendy up and leaning her body towards Irene’s own, as if in a hug. She succeeds and is ready to lay Wendy back down when she feels arms encircling her waist, firm yet somehow, in its own way, fragile.

Ba-dump.

There it is again.

Ba-dump.

The jumping in Irene’s chest.

“W-Wendy?” Irene manages to muster.

The words are a slur when Wendy says them but Irene still finds herself blushing from it.

“Just… needed this… after all.”

It is at these moments: when Irene is flustered, finding herself holding her breath; when she is lost for words, lost in Wendy’s world; when she is confused and unsure, threading on thin ice, ready to fall into deeper waters even if she is unprepared, that she questions it once more, whether she has really gotten used to Wendy at all.

Whether she will ever get used to Wendy at all.

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A/N: I've suddenly been into contemporary stories recently, far from sappy and nothing short of tear-jerkers. I really want to delve deeper and darker in this story but I'm afraid it might end up in the Mature section of AFF. I've decided to add a track to each chapter which I think suits the mood or describe the meaning of the chapter. It would be a joy to know that you guys have tried to listen to it as you read the chapter. I usually like to listen to music as I write. Helps me get the feeling and the right emotions.  I didn't proofread this properly so take it easy on any grammatical mistakes. Upvotes and comments are always greatly appreciated.