The coffee is bitter. After twenty years of friendship she still hasn’t learnt how I like it. She buys extra strong and leaves it to brew for ten minutes. I like the softer, more subtle coffee. The taste gets stuck as I try to talk and I have to keep stopping to clear my throat. She nods at intervals. I test her, by leaving sentences hanging or diverting the conversation. She continues nodding. Even after a long night out she’s still a professional listener.</p>  

I stumble on a word as she lights me a cigarette. I feel my lungs aching but right now it’s numbing my mind enough to continue talking. It feels like a stone is stuck in my throat, a thick ball of all the tar and bitter coffee, my saliva having to crawl around it every time I try to swallow. I ask her if she has anything else. Without answering she brings out whiskey and two glasses. The glasses are crystal; deep cuts hacked into patterns. She pours an inch into each glass. I take a deep breath feeling the edges of my throat again as I drink the whiskey. I want ice but I know she won’t have any. I can’t get that night out of my head.</p>

My hands are shaking; they struggle to find my mouth. Without saying anything, she lights a cigarette and passes it to me. She’s kind like that, she can sense when I need help. I try to tell her what’s happened.  She may even know. I can’t say the actual words, so I use replacement words for what I mean. She continues nodding. When it comes to mentioning his name I can’t do it. Instead I skip over the word. She doesn’t seem to notice, or she does and chooses not to. I know it’s a bad idea, because when it comes to morning and she still doesn’t understand I’m going to have to spell it out for her. But for now it’s all I can bear.</p>

The apartment becomes motionless when I stop talking. She never did like listening to music. I bought her a radio once though it’s tucked it the corner beneath a pile of books. I think about asking her to turn it on but she won’t know how. The window’s open. A motorbike occasionally breaks the silence. The odd footstep of someone on the way home or a night worker on their way to work. She swallows loudly. I wonder if she feels the same pebble in her throat as I do. My coffee is going cold but I take a sip anyway. Then she places a cigarette in my mouth and lights it for me. I want to say no this time but I don’t have the strength. I inhale and feel the smoke move down my throat and into my lungs. I watch it escape from my mouth in circles and disperse in the air. </p>

When my mouth is clear I try again. </p>

‘I’ve got something I really need to tell you.’ </p>

She nods.</p>

‘You’re not going to like it.’</p>

She nods.</p>

‘I don’t think you understand.’</p>

She bends down to take her heels off. ‘My feet are killing me - not as young as I used to be.’</p>

She pours me more whiskey. I take a sip and cough as it struggles to find its way down my throat. I look at the clock on her oven, red numbers flashing three am.  I long to hear birds, to hear morning approaching. Maybe then I wouldn’t have to say this. My hands are still shaking. I look down and watch them. I run the backs of my hands against the glass to cool them down. </p>

‘Can you just let me speak? Let me explain before you say anything?’</p>

She knows how to handle this, she sits back to let me speak.</p>

‘When we were kids, we used to sit on this wall, do you remember? Down the lane between our houses. We would go for walks, our mums would pack us a sandwich and a drink, and we’d go for walks for what felt like hours, just wandering around talking. Then we would find that wall and we would sit with our legs dangling over the edge, watching the stream below that would dry up in the summer. And you, you used to say that, no matter what happened we would be friends forever. Do you remember? No matter what happens?’</p>

She pours us more whiskey, filling her glass first. I watch the rusty liquid swirl in her glass and gather at her lips as she drinks. She’s barely looking at me. </p>

‘Well, from that day, or that time, I’ve felt like no matter what happens we’ll always be friends. Even if we don’t talk for years. I hope that’s still the case.’</p>

She lights herself a cigarette.</p>

‘Remember how you used to think that the same river ran all the way through the world, as a never ending stream of water?’</p>

She smiles. ‘I remember,’ she says.</p>

‘We would watch that stream and imagine the people it was passing, sitting with their feet over the edge just like us, on the other side of the world.’</p>

My glass is empty. I reach for the bottle next to her and she passes it to me. I pour myself a drink. I watch the liquid swirl the bottom. Take a deep breath. I can feel my lungs shaking. I’m not even sure if I can say this to her. I look up and try and look in her eyes. She’s looking at her cigarette, or her glass, or the window.</p> 

‘What’s the time?’</p>

She looks at the clock for me. </p>

‘Late. Just after three.’</p>

‘I haven’t stayed up this late in years. Remember when we were kids and this time used to feel like it didn’t exist? Like it was a secret time that your parents never wanted you to see? And then when we were teenagers and this time felt early, like the night was only just beginning.’</p>

She nods and tips her head to one side, hmms through a closed mouth as if practiced. </p>

I look at the clock on the oven to confirm. Three minutes past three. Flashing in big red lights. I should go home soon. </p>

‘Do you remember the last time you stayed up this late?’</p>

She looks at me. Her blood shot eyes. ‘With Gary.’ </p>

I nod. The whiskey has gone warm in my hand. I sip it, not really wanting to drink. </p>

‘Mine was… mine was… I can’t remember.’ I cough. ‘How is Gary?’</p>

She looks up at me, says nothing. I can see her biting the inside corner of her lip.</p>

‘Gary’s fine. Great in fact. Gary’s fine,’ she says.</p>

I wish she had a TV or radio to turn on. She never did like background noise, said it was too distracting and filled your head with too many things to ignore your own thoughts. I tap my fingers on the edge of the glass to make high pitched ting. I close my eyes and enjoy the noise for a moment, moving my fingers around the tip to change the pitch. I look up. She’s looking at me. I give her a guilty grin but she just looks away.</p>
</p>

*
</p>

‘4am, I wonder if any clubs are still open,’ I say.</p>

She shakes her head. </p>

‘They never stay open this late nowadays. Not in this country,’ I say in agreement with her. </p>

‘Probably because no one has the strength to stay up this late any more,’ she says. I wonder if she’s hinting at me. I used to be able to read her better. </p>

She stands up to wash our glasses. </p>

‘That’s okay, I’ll re use mine.’</p>

She doesn’t stop washing. She goes to the fridge and holds up an empty bottle.</p>

‘We’re all out of whiskey. Want brandy?’ she says.</p>

‘Why not.’</p>

She takes a towel and starts to dry the cups one at a time and place them back on the table in front of us. She pours us another drink. I realise I have to talk, if I’m going to say it before I leave.</p>

‘When you going away?’ I say.</p>

‘Two days.’</p>

‘On your business trip? </p>

‘Business and pleasure. He’s meeting me out there. Taking a few days off.’</p>

She necks her drink like its water and pours herself another. I hold mine and swirl the liquid in the glass. </p>

‘Sometimes I think I know you better then you do,’ she looks at me as she says this. She smiles but it’s almost a smug smile, too crooked to be real. </p>

‘What do you mean?’</p>

‘Well… you never could get your words out could you?’</p>

I neck my drink. Pour myself another. </p>

‘The pier night’ I say without looking at her. The taste of his tongue. </p>

‘What?’</p>

‘The pier night. That’s the last time I stayed up this late.’ The smell of his skin.</p>

Her smug smile drops. I feel sick from the smell of the drink; it reminds me of that night. Of his breath. I swallow. I want to say the words ‘with Gary’ but I can’t bring myself to do it. </p>

‘You asked. That’s the last time,’ I say.</p>

‘It’s getting late. You should be leaving. Don’t you have work in the morning?’</p>

‘No.’</p>
</p>

*
</p>
The number flicks from five to one minute past.  I stretch my neck, cock my head from side to side. Small talk’s become difficult, so heavy. The energy used to not say it. I pour myself another shot. As I go to put the bottle back on the table she snatches it from my hand to pour herself another. I bring it to my lips. The smell makes me gag. I look up quickly and the room spins. I rest my hands on the table to balance myself. </p>

‘Can we open a window?’ I ask.</p>

‘It is open.’</p>

The sun is beginning to rise outside. My eyes are burning with lethargy so I push my drink to one side. She takes it from me and begins to wash up. She takes a long time running the sink, placing the glasses in the water, scrubbing, with her back to me. She takes the ash tray and washes that up too. She places the empty ash tray back in front of me. I open my mouth to speak but it doesn’t form any words. The table is now empty and clean. She keeps her back to me, for a long time. I want to tell her that I’m sorry. That that night shouldn’t have happened. That I should have told her before Gary did.</p>

I take a deep breath and footsteps pass outside. Fast high heels tap on concrete like someone running late. </p>

‘I should…’ She’ll always think of me the way he told the story.</p>

I pick up my coat. My hands are shaking. Something falls from the coat to the floor. I pick it up. The noise makes her flinch but she doesn’t turn around. The brooch. She gave it to me when we were fifteen, an old thing shed found in her grandma’s attic. I gave her a pencil top in return. With my trembling hands I go to attach it back to my coat. I try a few times to no success. As I turn the brooch around I realise the pin is broken. A small lump of air passes my throat, something that would be a laugh if I wasn’t so tired. </p>

‘I should…’ She’ll never understand my version.</p>

She doesn’t look up. Her hands are in the sink but she’s not moving. Her head is down. I wish she had the radio on. I tie up my shoes. Open the door. She keeps her back to me. As I walk out the door I reach back and leave the broken brooch on the side. She doesn’t turn around. </p>

Outside the sun is rising. I walk home. All the way home.   




