Teach Me Dirty

“Blessed,” she said. “Art is a blessing.”

“Art, yes, but emotional sensitivity, the quest for the intangible, the meaning in everything, the beauty in everything. That can sometimes be a curse.” I stubbed out my cigarette in the dip of rock I always used as an ashtray. “It can be a lonely path.”

She pushed her hair behind her ears and nodded. “Yes… it can.”

“So, tell me, intuitive one, what does your soul say about a man like me?”

Her heels tapped against the rock, a steady rhythm as she pondered. “You’re smart,” she said. “And you’re considered. I see you thinking… when you’re thinking your eyebrows tense up, just a little. You think before you speak, most of the time, anyway. You take this little pause before you answer a question, like you want to be sure. A little breath, and you often tilt your head.”

“I didn’t know I tensed my eyebrows, or tilted my head.”

“You do. Not weirdly or anything, just a bit.” She laughed, a delightful girly sound. “I do this with everyone, don’t worry. I notice everyone.”

“What else have you noticed?”

“Your patience. You are calm, and kind, even when people aren’t listening, even when you’re angry, you’re still calm. You still have time for people, even the idiots. I feel your frustration sometimes, but you don’t show it, you’re always calm. You always want the best for people, even when they don’t want it for themselves, don’t you? Is that why you became a teacher?”

“Partly.” The wind caught her hair and blew it around my shoulder, and again I caught the scent of apple shampoo. “I’m not always calm and patient, Helen. Just at school. It’s my job to be calm and patient.”

She shook her head. “No,” she said. “I don’t believe you. You’re just trying to put yourself down so I don’t think you’re so great anymore.”

I smiled. “Is that so?”

She nodded. “It won’t work, though. My heart knows otherwise.”

“Your heart knows me that well, does it?” And mine sped up, a ridiculous reaction to a young girl’s observations.

“Well, my heart, my soul, whatever you want to call it.” Her eyes fixed on mine, and beneath the nerves there was steadfast honesty. “Sometimes I see you’re sad, like I get sad. Sometimes I see you watching the rain through the window, when everyone’s busy around you, and you act like it’s nothing, but I feel it… something… it tickles my stomach… makes it lurch like I’m falling… like it does when I feel sad, too.”

And my stomach lurched. “Everyone gets sad at some point.”

“Maybe.” She didn’t take her eyes away. “Maybe it’s just my imagination.”

“Maybe you’ve got a little too much intuition for your own good.” I tapped the side of her head with my finger. “You should put this to better use, you’ve got more important things to be worrying about than my sadness.”

“But you’re worried about mine…” she whispered. “That’s why we’re here, isn’t it? Because I said I was lonely. Because you heard me…” Tap, tap, tap went her heels. “Maybe I heard you, too…” I looked away, far into the distance, and she took it to mean I was displeased, I could hear the tension in her breath. “I’m sorry, I was wrong… stupid me… it’s nothing… just an overactive imagination. My dad says I have to keep my feet on the ground, he says I’m away with the fairies, making up loads of stupid crap that doesn’t mean anything… he says…”

“You’re right,” I said, cutting off her flow. “Sometimes I am sad. Sometimes I’m lonely, too. I know sadness, Helen, I know how it feels to be alone, and unseen. I know how it feels to be misunderstood, and outside the circle, I know how it feels when those around you want you to be anyone but yourself.”

“It’s just my dad really,” she said. “He’s so… practical. Everything has to be solid, black or white.”

“My father wanted me to be an accountant,” I shared. “Roberts and sons of Bristol, quite a prestigious firm. Only it’s Roberts and sons minus one son, the youngest. The boy who understood colours a lot better than he understood numbers. I never saw the magic in numbers, I never found satisfaction in regimented order.”

“Me, neither. My dad drives buses. He gets from A to B, on time. That’s his job, keeping order, keeping to the route. He enjoys the routine of it, says an orderly mind makes for an orderly life.” She smirked. “Time waits for no man, a good sense of timekeeping is an asset, Helen, nobody likes to be kept waiting.”

“That’s true enough.”

She nodded. “It’s true enough, but what fun is there in order? In keeping the status quo?”

“You’re asking the wrong person.”

“What’s life without risk, right? I think life is about experience… about the extremes… that’s where I think the soul thrives. What do you think?”