Free The Lesser Bohemians by Eimear McBride Page A

tell though, stop from go. Just this big fella with new smelling hair. I’ll see his Pericles Prince of Tyre. I know I know his name. Sure he’s all lips and muscles – what more do I want? Where’re we going? To get a night bus. I’m whirling. Slip. He catches me. Sit down, no sit down there. I a-seat myself. I agree with his kiss. I love an Irish redhead. Can you see I’m not? Well, and were you raised by nuns? Convent girls are best. Best what? Conquests, apparently. Go on with your conquering, but fall in with his way. See me. Skirt high on Adelaide Road. That’s a party. The way I want. Taste this man, but see the. No. Come down you sweet little roses, I sing Come down you little rose in the garden. Bus stops. I slip. He pulls me up. Transfigured night ahead. Wild one convent girl, come on. The tug of him and the brawl in my mind. Don’t, I say Leave me alone. Sister, I know what’s to be done.
    *
    England?   Camden?   Kentish   Town?   Turn like someone’s snapped my twangs. A man’s blond hair. His broader back.Mouth raw. Jaw stiff. Hey, wake up! Was I snoring? No, fucking hell! Relax, he yawns It’s only me. Blinks of dancing. Where is this? Finchley. Really? Jesus Christ. Nothing either of any sex though pretty sure there’s been . In fact, none of the night I see. Just being there, being here and empty in between. Fuck! What happened? What do you think? Where’d I get these bruises? You fell on the bus. Really? Several times. I don’t remember. That’s weird, he frowns But then, all that vodka when we got in. You were a right laugh though. How’d you mean? Well the guided tour. Oh God! No, he laughs It was good, especially all the ‘head, own hair’ part. Scan for iotas but all that’s blinded out and the nothing’s rushing fast. Then like playing Dallas, I sheet my breasts Did we use     something, at least? He picks at a tissue Yep we did. Not as handsome . Not as tall. Relief but laying itself across what’s certainly, seriously disappeared. I should go. Bra skirt shoe shoes knickers top. And when I’m dressed, he says Cheers for that. Yeah, I say You too.
    Out to the out. Bang the front door. City blast in my ears. Pigeon shit on sycamores. Don’t panic. I already am. Panic like a mad one the whole way home. London crossing before me, preoccupied with itself. Content I’m the girl who does this for a laugh, but later, alone, bats an eye.
    Good party? the landlady asks. I offer my best occluded self and Didn’t get much sleep on her sofa though. Oh, she guiles I’m sure the drink didn’t help. I smile to let her in and keep her out. Any nice boys? No, not at all. Ah, time enough for that. Exactly. Go on so – I am dismissed – have yourself a little lie down.
    Still. I can. I make myself still until I hear her leave. And into the bath to scrape skin off. Rubbed under bubbles til I’m pure gold butter dripping from my tongue. No. Never thatagain. But everything else? I might have. I can just about guess by the aches and pains where his larking was. Think. Don’t. Think of. Him. Just go to my room and as the day goes down, light a cigarette. Then let it find its own information, for pain knows what it is. Better there where I can see. Better than his mystical fading. Landlady later screaming You used my hot water again!
    Â 
    Sunday
    Door opens on the scrat of party debris and her howling at the sink. What is it? I got here quick as I could. She Did you see him on his way out? Who? She means me. You duplicitous shit! He lights his rollie Anyway I’m off. Wait, I say What’s going on? But he’s already out the door. Oh God, pink marigolds hit the floor. Her sliding after them down on her arse. Come here, I say Tell me what’s wrong? as hicks and kinks go mad. Pick by bit though it comes out He just told me    only now