Smile if you’re not wearing knickers by Peter Arscott

I was pleased the butcher knew my face.

For months I’ve been coming here, wanting him to look at me, to really look at me, watching the sinews in his forearm tighten with each effortless chop of the cleaver as it neatly parts a chicken’s neck from its body, or a pink cutlet from half a ribcage. He carries himself with such grace, his every move unhurried, as if the world outside, with its fuss and hurly burly, is of no concern to a man who functions by his own imperatives, and in his own time.

I have never stuck out in a crowd. As a child I spent my time with my nose in a book, while Sally was busy falling out of trees, or winning hockey matches, or going off camping with friends.  Father called her Sparky – but I didn’t resent it, because I knew I had nothing he wanted or needed.  I kept myself to myself, even more so after Mum passed away. It was somehow easier.

There is a rhythm to it, a choreography, as the butcher leans into the display counter to select whatever cut is required, then the measured long stride to the large and well-worn chopping block, the unhurried thwack of the cleaver and then the arm extended to the scales where the practiced hand slaps the meat onto its paper.  “That’ll be a fiver, my love” – a confident baritone, the smile like brackets on either side of his mouth. Then the twist to the corners of the brown paper bag and its offer to the customer with a slight cocking of the head. “Thank you, my love,” he’ll say as he takes the money.

I have now reached an age when I can see clearly what lies ahead. I sometimes wake up and lie in bed unable to get out of it, pinned down by the dead weight of the day ahead. You have to be strong to live solo, unaccompanied through life. I thought I was strong.  I find that my bed is too big, and I am filled with a strange longing, a feeling like missing something you’ve never had. I tried explaining this to Sally. “Too much self-analysis, my sweet little sibling. Just get on with it before Time’s winged chariot, etc, etc …” She can be somewhat over-the-top, my sister, but she’s my only true friend, my polar opposite.

I see him serving the women in front. They are loud and shrill like parrots. I savour him with my eyes. His black wavy hair, his thick moustache, the broad shoulders. I undress him and there he is – tall as a sapling, and supple like a cheetah. But I have never seen a man naked, and I don’t suppose I ever will. A real man, that is. Not Michelangelo’s David or Caravaggio’s Cupid, lovely though they are.

Never once has he said to me “here you are, my love” as he does to all he others. Not once. I did try wearing a beret, but this had no effect. Nor did holding my completed cryptic crossword conspicuously in one hand. That was foolish. I put on lipstick on another occasion, but it simply showed up my teeth, which is why I don’t smile often. I only ever buy a few slices of ham which I get rid of it at home. I know, it’s a waste –  but I am vegetarian.

I don’t know how to go about relationships – I’m inept. Even Julian, my boss, a kind and gentle man,  stopped asking me out. I want an anchor to stop me drifting. Somebody to hold onto, somebody to tell me things and to listen to me, to be firm some of the times and yielding at others. Like Sally and Tony sparking off each other, bringing out of each what they can’t themselves. I must strive for this, and though it’s unrealistic to expect the butcher to fulfil this role, it’s a first small step in the right direction …  with a man I find attractive. He is a man at ease with life.

My goodness, I don’t even know his name … and I’m sure he’s married.

Sally visits me often. Despite her showiness and flamboyance, I know she is really keeping an eye on me. Last week she came to the flat with a bottle of red wine and drank half of it, taking the rest back with her because she knows I don’t drink, though she did forget to take her jacket and left it hanging on the hook by the door. I was putting it away for safekeeping when I noticed it had a row of tin badges on one of its lapels – typical of Sally. She likes bright colours, and jewellery of all sorts, big earrings, bracelets that jangle, shiny brooches. That sort of thing.

I was thinking of Sally and how she has Tony at home, and her two daughters, and all those friends. I’m happy for her, and I know it’s taken me a long time to face it, but I want some of that for myself …before it’s too late.  She says “Squeak, when are you going to come out of that shell?”  Sally the outgoing child, and she still reaches out to people, never worrying about consequences. “You reap what you sow”, she says.

This morning, I chose a badge and pinned it to my overcoat. I stood at the butcher’s and, when I reached the counter, took a deep breath and resolved not to say anything. I swallowed hard. I watched his eyebrow arch and then, very slowly, a smile appeared. He looked at me. For the first time, he really looked at me. “What will it be, my love?” I hadn’t thought what to get, so I asked for a pork chop.

It’s a start.

Next week I’m wearing the one with I fart in lifts.  

Peter Arscott

Image by Alan J Espinoza from Pixabay – The arm of a butcher slicing meat with a long knife. Table with meat.