I don’t know if Michael is gay, but if he were gay, I hope he’d pick me.
Okay, okay, let me rewind here. I’m only saying this because, after several afternoons in his company, I believe we really get along, and I believe he really likes me, or the version of me I allow myself to be around him, you know. Clad in my rockstar uniform and stealing glances behind my oversized sunglasses, a cigarette hanging from my lip, a quick joke and a snarky attitude always at hand to make him laugh, that sort of thing. He said it to me once, he said, “You look so carefree, I wish I could be so carefree,” and I could have wept, because I have successfully hidden my constant anxiety from him.
January passed in a blur. In a remarkable feat, I finished The Picture of Dorian Gray in record time, aka less than a week. Even more impressed upon hearing it, Michael offered to meet once a week to work on the essay. We’re both too busy to hang out more, though I wouldn’t mind if he were less solicited.
Our essay will be superb. Michael’s smart, he sees things that I would never notice in a million years, but he thinks it’s because he’s English, and if I were as well, I would pick up on certain things. He says, despite my years at Colette, we still don’t speak the same language, and it shows. I asked what he meant by that, but he never answered. Answering my questions is not Michael’s strong suit. Perhaps if I bothered asking more of them…
Despite his enigmatic ways, I feel I’m starting to get a good idea of Michael, and I’m amused to recall he once called himself boring, because he’s nothing at all like that. I have spent enough time with him to have picked up a few things. Michael is kind, really kind. Not faking it, kind. You know like some people are ‘nice’, but they’re not ‘kind’ and the difference is subtle, but it’s there. Nice people want you to think they care. Kind people actually do. Michael worries about people’s wellbeing like Tony worries about the future of Babyshambles. That means a lot.
Michael’s the sort of person who hangs out with his mother, picks up anything you drop before you notice its absence, and gives directions to strangers on the street, even if he himself is new to the city.
Michael’s easy to be around. You could say he’s low maintenance, but he wouldn’t like you talking about people like that. Smiles come easy to him, and he never opens his mouth to say anything vile. He lets people rant about things he doesn’t even like himself. He allowed me to talk about Franz Ferdinand’s latest album for twenty-five minutes once, before gently reminding me to get back to work.
And he doesn’t mind trying new things.
Michael loves Paris, really loooooves Paris. Every bridge must be stopped at and its architect praised, every cobbled alley commented about, every plane tree admired. At first, I thought he was odd, and Tony might be right, he could be a serial killer, but now I find myself stopping in the middle of a busy street to admire an old mosaic or a lamppost, and I’ve realised I’ve taken my city for granted for too long. I told Michael I spend more time smoking plants than admiring them. The way he laughed! Faint dimples appeared in his cheeks and looked very pretty. I became agitated, but as I was wearing my sunglasses, he didn’t notice.
Michael is so delighted by Paris that he doesn’t even mind the smell of piss in the metro or how rough the hordes of suburbans rushing home at night can be.
But the strangest thing about Michael is that he genuinely seems to like me. Okay, granted, he likes everyone, and everyone likes him, which is very annoying. Well, Tony doesn’t like him at all, but it’s probably because he’s a contrarian and also because I have twice cancelled plans with him to work on the essay, and he didn’t like that.
Despite Michael’s good nature, I still believe he favours me a little. The last time we met at his place, we talked about our future. Michael’s got bright ideas about his, as you can imagine.
“Perhaps I’ll go to film school.” He was swaying on his chair, dangerously close to tumbling backwards, as I stared, slack-jawed. “Where are you going?”
“I don’t know what I’m going to do.” I realised a little too late that I had said the truth, without even thinking twice about it. But Michael didn’t think of being judgmental; he waited for me to gather my thoughts while the chair seemed hellbent on keeping upright just for him. “I thought I might travel, you know.”
He nodded. “That’s a great plan, do you know where?” He lifted his pencil to his mouth, chewed on the tip, glanced back at me when I didn’t answer. I shook my head. I wouldn’t want him to think I could be going to London. He might get the wrong idea.
I’ve never met anyone quite like Michael before. Part of me wants to impress him, another wants to never see him again. And yet I always show up to our meetings with a trepidation English Lit never birthed in me before.
Michael is my well-guarded secret. Tony would make fun of him or grow jealous. And despite her best intentions, Lucie would want to twist him around her finger. Is it wrong of me to enjoy someone’s company without having to justify myself? Every hour spent in his company rushes by really fast. I like the way the corners of his eyes crinkle when he sees me, the way his eyes are always on me, saving me from more than one massive dog poo and always seeking even my most random opinion.
Michael likes me, and I like Michael. It’s an unspoken truth, our truth. Sometimes I think we’re the best of friends. I wonder what would have happened if I’d met him before Tony found me. New questions arise, and I’m nowhere near getting answers. But I know this: A person like me, whose stomach is quick to turn and whose imagination always rushes to the worst conclusion, has been able to find peace in the company of another bloke. A simple guy, whose laid-back attitude has almost become an inspiration.
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