A Day Without Sunshine
by E. Saxey
I don’t waste time. I study, I work hard, and when I go out I can squeeze a month of clubbing into one night. Tonight I’m squeezing it in a nasty place in Peckham, South London: no air, and the walls are sweating. I can’t get drunk–I’ve got a lecture tomorrow morning–so I’m dancing myself stupid, twisting my head so quick that my braids twat me in the face.
But across the delirious dance-floor, in the far corner, there’s a pool of stillness. Nobody dancing, everyone chilling, and you, leaning on a wall. You’re a little guy with lush brown eyes, gazing all around you.
I fight my way through the dancers to get to you. I get tangled in arms, fingernails up in my face, but I finally reach you.
“I’m Michelle. I’m doing law. You a student?”
You’re Hesham, twenty-eight, from Cairo. Not studying anything.
As I look at you, my skin tingles. Then I hear a police siren wailing past–of course, we’re next to the fire exit. That’s why there’s a pool of coolness round you.
“This is all excellent,” you say, waving an overpriced beer bottle at the terrible club. I laugh.
“You must be on some good stuff, fam.”
“I’m not! I like places where everyone’s having, oh, as much fun as they can.” You sound shy, formal. My Ma would call you “well brought up”.
Later, you sneak into my sweaty arms. You’re shorter than me and kind of delicate, but you don’t make me feel clumsy. Just strong, as though I could scoop you up.
Like I said, I don’t waste time. “Are you going to invite me back to yours?”
I reckon you’ll get ripped off by the flaky minicabs hovering outside. But you find us a proper black cab. We sit on opposite sides of the big back seat. Up the mangy Old Kent Road we go, across the dark river with both banks twinkling. Past the City, castles of light.
The taxi metre ticks up and up. “Hesham, I can’t split the fare on this!”
“Oh! I should have said. I’ll get it.”