Work for It

by Talia Hibbert

Which means it’s finally happened; after thirty-eight years of fighting it, I have become an alien species. And tonight, like any self-respecting alien, I have left the safety of my flat to study humanity.

Which means it’s finally happened; after thirty-eight years of fighting it, I have become an alien species. And tonight, like any self-respecting alien, I have left the safety of my flat to study humanity.

“How are you, my darling?” “Curious,” Rebecca grins, and lowers her voice. “A little birdy told me you’ve smuggled a handsome man into the village.” This is what Rebecca’s like. She says shit like We’re going to spy, but here are three things she can’t do: keep a secret, lie, be subtle. People love it or hate it.

“How are you, my darling?” “Curious,” Rebecca grins, and lowers her voice. “A little birdy told me you’ve smuggled a handsome man into the village.” This is what Rebecca’s like. She says shit like We’re going to spy, but here are three things she can’t do: keep a secret, lie, be subtle. People love it or hate it.

I’ve learned over the years that I have to be firm with forbidden hopes, just like I’m firm with Rebecca. Although, I never last long against Bex. She has this dizzying mix of charm and 1-2-3 logic that I struggle to fight. Plus, she talks really fast, and it makes her sound smart. Already I can feel my remaining braincells toddling after her toward a cliff’s edge.

I’ve learned over the years that I have to be firm with forbidden hopes, just like I’m firm with Rebecca. Although, I never last long against Bex. She has this dizzying mix of charm and 1-2-3 logic that I struggle to fight. Plus, she talks really fast, and it makes her sound smart. Already I can feel my remaining braincells toddling after her toward a cliff’s edge.

I sigh and stare at the green velvet in front of me, red and yellow balls dotted about. But after a second, that’s not what I’m seeing: my eyes are full of the beautiful stranger. I study the memory of him, since I’m not allowed to look, and list his pros and cons. The pros go like this. Jesus Christ, I need a good fuck. He’s intimidating. I like it. His bottom lip is the rounded curve of a plump, ripe peach, and that’s my favourite fruit. I want to bite.

I sigh and stare at the green velvet in front of me, red and yellow balls dotted about. But after a second, that’s not what I’m seeing: my eyes are full of the beautiful stranger. I study the memory of him, since I’m not allowed to look, and list his pros and cons. The pros go like this. Jesus Christ, I need a good fuck. He’s intimidating. I like it. His bottom lip is the rounded curve of a plump, ripe peach, and that’s my favourite fruit. I want to bite.

I wait for it and watch the giant. He has the stride of a minor god, and the pub’s patrons, with their muddy tweed and their well-trained dogs at their heels, part for him like he’s a rabid animal. Their worry is understandable: the glower on his suntanned, well-worn face can only be described as ferocious. Beneath a trimmed, black beard, his jaw is hard as iron. I wonder if he really is coming over to flirt or if he’s coming over to punch me. One blow with that meteoric fist and he might snuff me out like the dinosaurs, so I suppose I’ll have to dodge fast.

I wait for it and watch the giant. He has the stride of a minor god, and the pub’s patrons, with their muddy tweed and their well-trained dogs at their heels, part for him like he’s a rabid animal. Their worry is understandable: the glower on his suntanned, well-worn face can only be described as ferocious. Beneath a trimmed, black beard, his jaw is hard as iron. I wonder if he really is coming over to flirt or if he’s coming over to punch me. One blow with that meteoric fist and he might snuff me out like the dinosaurs, so I suppose I’ll have to dodge fast.

All he does is look at me and say, “Hello.” One word, two syllables, in a quiet, rasping voice that makes me oddly aware of my own skin—skin that still doesn’t feel heavy or sweaty or too tight for my body.

All he does is look at me and say, “Hello.” One word, two syllables, in a quiet, rasping voice that makes me oddly aware of my own skin—skin that still doesn’t feel heavy or sweaty or too tight for my body.

My emotions reach me through a thick coat of cotton these days, but the curiosity he’s stirring is sharp enough to prick at me. He’s like a little dose of the antidepressants I don’t take.

My emotions reach me through a thick coat of cotton these days, but the curiosity he’s stirring is sharp enough to prick at me. He’s like a little dose of the antidepressants I don’t take.

He looks… interesting. Oh, I don’t know why I’m being polite: he looks as if someone hammered chunks out of a mountain, saw a man’s likeness in the resulting craggy mess, and gave it life. He’s all weather-beaten skin, wild, midnight hair that falls into his eyes, and a nose that could be called a beak if beaks were crooked. His mouth is a grim, finely carved line that my own would suffocate, and his shoulders are like boulders. His knuckles are like walnuts. If I’m frank, he’s quite ugly, but there is something about him. The fleeting urge to crack him open should have faded by now, but it’s still there.

He looks… interesting. Oh, I don’t know why I’m being polite: he looks as if someone hammered chunks out of a mountain, saw a man’s likeness in the resulting craggy mess, and gave it life. He’s all weather-beaten skin, wild, midnight hair that falls into his eyes, and a nose that could be called a beak if beaks were crooked. His mouth is a grim, finely carved line that my own would suffocate, and his shoulders are like boulders. His knuckles are like walnuts. If I’m frank, he’s quite ugly, but there is something about him. The fleeting urge to crack him open should have faded by now, but it’s still there.

“So, are you as scary as you look?” Through the messy fall of his hair, I see his eyebrows rise. “You admitting I’m scary?” He’s warming up to me. I do believe I like him warm. “No. I said you look it.”

“So, are you as scary as you look?” Through the messy fall of his hair, I see his eyebrows rise. “You admitting I’m scary?” He’s warming up to me. I do believe I like him warm. “No. I said you look it.”

I am clinging to this hint of lust with both hands, desperate for it to grow roots, to bite deep into me, to make me myself again. Want him. Want him carelessly and carnally, and then you’ll be fixed. As if shagging him, someone, anyone, is a magic spell that will rewrite months of cold confusion.

I am clinging to this hint of lust with both hands, desperate for it to grow roots, to bite deep into me, to make me myself again. Want him. Want him carelessly and carnally, and then you’ll be fixed. As if shagging him, someone, anyone, is a magic spell that will rewrite months of cold confusion.

“As for the second thing—don’t call me ‘golden boy’.” “Why not?” “So, so many reasons,” I say. “But the only one you need to know is that I’ll barbecue your balls.”

“As for the second thing—don’t call me ‘golden boy’.” “Why not?” “So, so many reasons,” I say. “But the only one you need to know is that I’ll barbecue your balls.”

I tug him closer. But this time, he doesn’t come. Firm and flat, he tells me, “Stop.” I stiffen. The strangeness sings, triumphant. See? You can’t trust him. He’s made you show your hand, made you want and need, made a fool of you, and you fell for it. It is entirely possible that I’m going to be sick. “I’m not doing this,” Griff says. “You’re—” Pathetic, spectacularly useless, worth less than a kilo of snow. But what he says is, “You’re shaking. Keynes, you’re shaking.” His tone isn’t gentle, but his hands are. They curl around my upper arms, stroking up and down, as if to soothe me.

I’ll work and sweat in a strange place and I swear, I’ll be Keynes again. I will be myself. I’ll slough off this fragility like a snake’s skin, and beneath it all I’ll be shining and deadly like I once was.

I’m not a man who spent last night tossing and turning over a stranger. I’m not a man with a little burning coal trapped beneath his breastbone that could be worry or resentment. I’m not a man who had to go home and Google the definition of ‘provincial’ before he could be properly pissed off, either. I mean, for Christ’s sake, did he have to insult me with Scrabble words? Couldn’t he have just called me a tosser?

But the more time passes, all I can hear is the derision in his voice, and all I can think about is the fact that I’m shit at reading people and generally arse-backward when it comes to human nature. He even told me as much—told me what everyone’s always said: that I’m an idiot, I’m a freak, I can’t grasp the basic threads of behaviour that everyone else is weaving with. Oh, and that I’m a walking penis. Can’t forget that.

I don’t care if he was upset or not. He’s a prick, and if I never see him again it’ll be too soon. But why was he shaking?

If this is a hallucination brought on by my sleepless night, it’s proper realistic. I can feel the warmth of the sunbeams filtering through the beech trees. I can hear wood pigeons trilling at me to calm the fuck down. Daffodils droop gently at my feet, reminding me of my mother with a migraine.

His palm isn’t rough, but it is tough, and his handshake is firm. I must be off my rocker because I find myself wishing he’d try to squeeze the life out of my hand, the way some men do. It would be a betrayal of emotion, or, I don’t know, fucking memory. Right now, he’s making me wonder if last night even happened, and it’s starting to piss me off. That coal beneath my breastbone, the one he put there, is burning through things best left unburnt. Apparently, it’s not worry or resentment: it’s anger, and it’s rising up my throat at a rapid clip. I clench my jaw.

Only, the card’s outdated, so… He decided that I’m a writer. Tell Isaac, if anyone asks him about my impending travel memoirs, to nod enigmatically.” Lizzie snorts. “I’m sure that can be arranged. And, really, Keynes, you are a writer.” “We’ll agree to disagree.” “You’re a pain, sometimes, brother-mine.” “As you never fail to remind me.”

“I’m a school teacher. Why?” “Because I would’ve guessed as much.” “Ha! And you?” “I’m a profligate rake. It’s considered an outdated profession, but I’m rather good at it.”

“I needed you—” he begins, then cuts himself off sharply. I know, the same way I know he was shaking, that he hates what he just said.

His size should make him slow, but, since he’s fundamentally irritating, it doesn’t. He sprints ahead of us like some kind of athlete. I watch the muscles in his back bunch through his T-shirt as the fabric grows steadily wetter and more transparent, this slight April shower having a catastrophic effect. Everything about him is so… big. Thick. Excessive. He is height and muscle layered with soft, simple weight, and looking at him makes me want to sink my teeth into something.

Sheep, sheep, everywhere. And—is that a goat? Sheep, as a species, have a fundamental flaw: I hate them.

Clearly, he has atrocious taste in humans. Although, his taste didn’t seem so atrocious when he was trying to taste me. But I fucked that up, didn’t I? And for the first time in a long time, knowing I’m a mess doesn’t make me angry. It just makes me sad. For Christ’s sake, Olu, now isn’t the time for emotional exploration. I have sheep to deal with. Shudder.

“I bet you could pick up a sheep.” Like Griffin, she means. My snort is loud and indignant enough to be heard over the rain. “Holly, darling, you don’t understand. Sheep and I barely associate. We are not on speaking terms. This entire situation is pushing me over the edge as it is.”

Why am I subjecting my poor body to this abuse? Oh, yes—because “hard work cures all ills,” and I’m drowning in ills. Interestingly enough, I do feel much better now that I’ve carried a farm animal. Sort of… real, earthy, human. Simple. Perhaps I’ll snatch another.

“Hate to piss all over your authority,” he says with a weak, wicked smile, “but I fucked a doctor on and off through med school. I do believe that gives me the edge over first aid training—unless you’re a nurse as well as a farmer?” He’s doing it again; shoving me, without hands this time. He wants me to tut and glare and turn away in disgust. Instead, I snap, “Do you think knowledge travels from body to body through come?”

Rain is dripping from the tips of our eyelashes, and my patience is dissolving in the downpour like sugar. He’s stubborn as the fucking sheep and twice as annoying.

“If you take that shirt off without my help, it’ll hurt.” “I predict taking a shit will hurt for the next week or so, too, but I’ll still be visiting the bathroom,” he replies.

Antiseptic wipes, an icy sting that makes him stiffen; my clumsy hands, trying so hard to be gentle, and he doesn’t complain. I expected him to complain. Or call me stupid, or flirt to make me sweat, then laugh when I drop things. Instead, he’s a silent statue while I clean and bandage his grazes.

I lean toward him until my lips graze his ear. His closeness races up my spine. He smells rain-wet and fresh, with a hint of something like berries, and for such a hard man, his skin looks ridiculously soft—like the vulnerable, inner curve of a petal. Like the silk of his hair. He’s holding his breath. “I think,” I whisper, “that something about you makes me 65% less violent, and that’s well worth exploring.” He laughs, but the sound is shaky. Affected. Good.

“I think,” he tells me slowly, “that I want to hold your hand.” My thoughts grind to a halt. My heart stutters in my chest. I stare at him, speechless, and he looks steadily back, those strong and stony features impassive. As if there’s nothing remotely unusual about what he just said. Something rises inside me like the sun, burning away every sickly, nervous fear that was trying to encroach. The voice in the back of my mind can’t whisper that he’s a stranger, that he can’t be trusted, that he’s trying to hurt me, when all he wants to do is hold my hand. So the voice fades. I reach for him.

Suddenly the air feels cold against my bare chest, and the feelings churning inside me are as much a vulnerability as they are a victory. I don’t want anyone to see me like this. Like what? Wanting. It strikes me like lightning that this is the foundation of my fears: I don’t want to touch anyone, don’t want to be with anyone, because even the men I sleep with can’t be trusted to see me wanting.

The evening rolls on easily, and the more we chuckle and chat together, the more I feel like myself. Like an undead thing coming slowly back to life. We call it a night, and as I climb the stairs up to my flat, I realise that for some months I have been lonely.

I search for something else to think of, and my focus wanders, predictably, to Griff. I see him on his knees before me. I feel his knuckles grazing my ribs as he helps me put on my clothes, as he protects the proud, fragile parts of me without being asked. He didn’t even make me ask. My body tightens in that hot, reckless way I no longer thought I was capable of.

“I like plants.” It’s an unnecessary statement. I don’t usually share those, but something tells me Keynes doesn’t usually hyperventilate, and he’s done it twice around me, so… So, I suppose this is how things go with us. Different than usual, I mean.

I don’t want any tea.” I blink at the herbs in the window, thrown off. What the fuck am I supposed to do with him if he doesn’t want tea? He’s just exhausted my social knowhow with five words. Typical bloody Keynes.

“You’re very interested in my work. Why are you here, again?” He stops chopping abruptly. Says, slow and uncertain, “You… That is, I thought—” “Fernley,” I clarify. “Why are you in Fernley?” Because there was an odd, lost hesitance in his voice, like he thought I meant, Why are you in my house? As if I’d ever ask him that, even as a joke. Keynes is here because he needs looking after, whether he wants it or not.

“It’s fun.” “So is eviscerating people, but if I were asked to draw up a deliciously cruel contract, I’d still charge.” I blink at him. “Does that mean you’re a lawyer?” He waves a hand over his body. “Attractive, intelligent, too talkative by half and generally in control of any situation. Of course I’m a lawyer.”