Free The Blueprint by Marcus Bryan Page A

and
asks me how old I am. I offer him my ID, but I’m not sure that’s
what he meant.
    The place is
filling up, and all the seating areas appear to have been claimed a
long while ago, so I wander around looking for an anonymous stretch
of wall to lean on while I wait for the wine-headedness to subside.
No sooner have I parked myself in an acceptable spot than some
goth-looking girl - all dark make-up and piercings and tattoos
that’ll need a burka to cover up when she goes for a job interview
– ambles over and parks herself near me. I crane my neck downwards
and slurp the froth off the top of my drink, and I notice that
she’s tapping her foot impatiently. I want to ask whether this
means that they haven’t been on yet, but I don’t have time to draft
out a list of responses to her potential responses, then more
responses to her potential responses to that, and so on. I also
know that if she made eye contact with me the teleprompter in my
head would suddenly suffer a power-cut. I amuse myself watching the
bubbles in my drink race each other to the surface, but, as I do
so, I gradually develop the unshakeable sensation that I’m being
stared at. I force my pupils upwards and to the side, to the point
where I can make out the goth’s chin. Her mouth is moving.
    ‘Jesus; I’ve
got half a mind to bottle ‘em even if they’re good, at this rate.’
she says, in an accent that I wasn’t expecting, like a native
Geordie raised on Only Fools and Horses reruns. She throws
her empty bottle up and down in her hand slightly, as though she’s
checking the weight of it, and its damage potential.
    Though she’s
plainly shorter then me I have to lift my eyes up to meet hers, and
give an obsequious smile. I then let them drop back down to my
shandy, because I can’t think of something to say. I find myself
scowling in frustration. When I’m talking to Charlie or Liz I don’t
have to scrabble like this, like I’m held prisoner inside my own
head, internally drafting and re-drafting sentences enough times
that the conversation outpaces them, checking them for
offensiveness or unintended meaning, analysing whether they’re
funny or not, wondering if I’ve missed the subtext of what the
other participant said.
    She’s still
staring at me. I don’t know why I know this, but I know it. I also
know that she won’t stop staring until I reply to her statement. I
pull some ideas together and throw them, half-digested, back over
to her:
    ‘The amount of
time a band is allowed before people start throwing bottles is
directly proportional to how famous the band is,’ I say.
    ‘Yeah, ok,’
she replies. I suddenly get the feeling that she’s cocked her head
to one side. ‘If you wanna chat a girl up, at least do your lines
in fucking English.’
    My scowl
deepens for a couple of moments, but suddenly a retort hops into my
brain. Perhaps it’s one I’d drafted in a conversation years ago and
spent too long tinkering with to be able to use it. I still spend
two more moments de-and-re-constructing it, and another two working
up the nerve to say it. Almost as though she understands this, the
goth girl waits patiently for me to spit it out.
    ‘That’s one of
the most arrogant things I’ve ever heard someone say,’ I tell her,
‘and I live with a guy who routinely claims to be the second coming
of Christ.’
    She eyes me in
an appraising fashion, and then, finally, a smirk creeps up one
side of her face.
    ‘Fair enough.
I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt.’
    ‘Gracious,’ I
reply, hiding my relief beneath a thick lacquer of sarcasm.
    ‘You’re
welcome.’ She stops leaning against the wall and turns to face me
properly for the first time. ‘What’s your name, by the way?’
    I tell her,
and reverse the question. That’s an easy one.
    ‘Phoebe,’ she
says. Lacking anything else to do, or say, I offer my hand. She
holds on to my palm, giving me a strange look. I notice that she
has a tattoo on the back of her