Free 50 Reasons to Say Goodbye by Nick Alexander Page A

have that is so
terrible
… It sounds like I am the only person he met in Cambridge that he
couldn’t
bring himself to sleep with. The information reels and rolls around in my head.
    He drapes a huge arm across my shoulder. “I wouldn’t wanna be accused of not being clear again!” he says.
    I look around, searching for a reason to escape. On my left I see two Japanese tourists. One of them is holding a camera, patently hoping that someone will offer to take the photo; I wriggle from beneath Dirk’s arm. “You want your photo taken?”
    The girl smiles at me broadly, nods twice. She wrapsher arm around her girlfriend.
    I position the word HOLLYWOOD above their heads. My eyes are watery, my vision blurred. I can see Dirk through the viewfinder to the left of the girls – he’s grinning at me.
“He has no idea!”
I think.
    I press the shutter release. The girls grin and bow in thanks, then one of them points at my camera. “And you … You friend?” she asks.
    Her friend nods enthusiastically. “Yes, now you!” she agrees.
    I shake my head. “Nah, It’s OK.”
    â€œYes,” she insists. Her friend nods again.
    I sigh and hand her the camera. I move next to Dirk; he puts an arm around my shoulder again. “Are you OK?” he asks, hugging me tightly to his side.
    I grin at the camera, a big cheesy grin. “Great,” I say.
    â€œNever again,”
I think.
“I must never put myself through this again.”

Italian Duo
    As I walk towards La Civette, I scan the tables, looking for empty space. The town is balmy and filled with Italian tourists – it must be a bank holiday over the border.
    There are two free tables; one is next to a woman in her fifties – straight, black-bob haircut, elegantly dressed, reading a book. She looks at me as I approach. The second table is next to … I double take. I almost run to make sure I get the table. He’s beautiful, he’s huge – he’s the proverbial Adonis. I choose the chair that half faces him.
    He glances at me, then returns to a texting operation on his mobile phone. I watch him text, I watch him smoke. I look at his huge hands, the light blond hair on his arms, the shine on his shaved head, the dimples on either side of his mouth. I watch him watch me watching him and think of a Dr Feelgood song:
Looking back
. It rolls around in my head.
    I roll a cigarette and order beer; the sun beats down. The woman with the book keeps glancing over at me so I try to avoid her gaze. I search for my lighter, search
desperately
for my lighter.
    I don’t have a lighter; it never fails. He leans over, offers me his matches. His eyes are grey, piercing in the middle of his olive, tanned face. His teeth glint a smile at me, he strokes his chin. I smile; I thank him.
    He moves his chair slightly as he sits back. A calculated, natural accident, which points him a full thirty degrees further towards me.
    My beer arrives; he raises his in a vague toasting gesture. We smile.
    We watch the hordes; we see a juggler, followed by a street acrobat. A jazz band appears and busks in front of us. Their smiling and joking around makes me feel like I’m on holiday. The sax player is cute. I look at him for a moment, he grins at me.
    But he’s nothing on the Italian. We both watch the band and we watch each other watching.
    I’m supposed to go to the shops before they shut but I can’t leave, not before the end of the film, not before I see what, if anything, is going to happen. I order food here instead; the man does too. He laughs as he orders, making the waiter laugh too.
    Our orders arrive together. We’ve both chosen “Norwegian” salads: salmon, prawns, lettuce … We grin; we raise eyebrows.
    The waiter brings beer but I still have one, so I tell him I didn’t order it. He points to the Italian who is grinning at me. “He sent it,” the waiter