Free The Fish Kisser by James Hawkins Page B

technology—what truly masterful advertising genius had persuaded people that progress was to turn a thirty second phone call into an hour-long marathon of typing and reading?
    Later, much later, in their exchanges, with all meaningful information exposed, she fished for his thoughts, his feelings.
    â€œI THINK YOUR REALLY NICE,” she typed, her misspelling unnoticed by either. “WHAT DO YOU THINK OF ME?”
    â€œU ARE REALLY SUPER TRUDE. I’VE NEVER MET ANYONE AS NICE AS YOU. I WISH I COULD SEE U. I BET U LOOK LOVELY. I THINK I’M FALLING IN LOVE.”
    â€œOh my God,” she breathed, feeling a warmth as the words sank in. What would Margery think of that? Margery with her string of admirers; Margery always knowing the right thing to say to a boy; Margery with her cool clothes, “in” lipstick and the right footwear. “Height matters,” she’d said, flaunting her new fourinch chunky heeled boots.
    Trudy saved the message log on her hard drive, would have printed a copy but was out of paper. “I think I’m falling in love,” she read, and re-read, luxuriating in the words; listening to them roll off her tongue; watching her expression in the mirror; imagining Roger saying them: “I think I’m falling in love.”
    â€œTRUDY—R U STILL THERE?” Her screen was saying.
    â€œYES.” she typed back quickly, suddenly realizing that she’d not responded to his earlier message. “I’M HERE, AND I THINK I’M FALLING IN LOVE TOO.”
    They could have picked up the phone, spoken directly, said what they wanted to say, heard what theywanted to hear, yet neither did, preferring to add another veil to the eternal dance. Lovers, fumbling in the dark, excited by the uncertainty of what they may find, deliberately delaying gratification—or disappointment.
    Trudy called for Margery the following morning, something she rarely did of late, but she was unable to contain her excitement. Margery’s cigarette-thin mother, a length of ash dangling precariously, answered the door to Trudy’s cheery, “Hi—is Mar …”
    She got no further. “Hang on, Luv,” she said, flicking the ash past her onto the street. “It’s for you Marg,” she shouted, turning to face the stairs.
    â€œGo on up, Luv. It’s time she was up for school,” she called over her shoulder as she turned back to the kitchen.
    Margery was miffed, “I thought you’d found a new friend,” she sneered, dived under the bedclothes and buried her head in the pillow. One foot stuck out, her azure toenails—”Chic” according to one of her mother’s magazines—contrasting sharply to the chalkiness of her skin.
    â€œYou’re still my best friend, Marg,” Trudy tried soothingly, closing the bedroom door behind her. “But Roger
is
sort of cute.”
    â€œCute! Cute! You don’t know what he looks like for gawd’s sake,” she shot back.
    â€œI do so.”
    â€œBollocks you do.”
    â€œYeah, well that’s where you’re wrong, see.”
    Margery leapt up, almost knocking Trudy off the edge of the narrow little bed—a cheap standby bought for a nine-year-old eight years earlier. “You’ve met him?” she asked excitedly.
    â€œNot exactly, Marg. But I know what he looks like, and he’s sending me a photo. He’s tall, well fairly tallanyway, and he’s got dark skin. Not Paki or anything like that—just sort of tanned. Oh, and I nearly forgot, he’s got brown eyes the same as mine. He’s got a really posh job as well—some sort of computer programmer in the city.”
    Margery, stirred into momentum by Trudy’s excitement, decided she might as well get up. She’d slept naked under the bedclothes, and now stepped, unashamedly, in front her friend, to examine her neat little body in the cracked, full-length mirror on