Short Story: Art Garfunkel Hair

Short Story: Art Garfunkel Hair

He had pale wispy hair, through which the light shone, halo-like, when he sat in front of a window, revealing the gleaming shape of his skull and reminding me of the young Art Garfunkel. I was never, ever, attracted to him. A few laughs at work, to help the day go by. That was all. There was never, ever, anything more in it than that. And I assumed that he felt the same. I was emerging from a relationship break-up, for heaven's sake. I didn’t say that explicitly; I didn’t think I needed to. And I certainly didn’t want to. As far as I was concerned, personal stuff was off-limits and our conversations were strictly light-hearted.

I didn't realise how things stood with him, until he invited me to a party at his flat. I wasn’t keen, but he lived just two streets away and I didn't like to be rude. When I arrived, the door was open and I peeped cautiously into the living-room. Muted James Blunt, overhead up-lit bulb on a dimmer switch, and three miserable-looking people I didn’t know, perched on a grubby cream sofa. I went straight to the kitchen to find a drink. Two gaunt, forty-ish women with sinewy necks wearing vest tops and jeggings were sitting barefoot on either side of a sputtering gas fire. His flatmates, apparently. They both said "Ah! You've come!” at the same time, which I found strangely unsettling, considering we’d never met.

"This is all for your benefit, you know," they whispered.

To the strains of You’re Beautiful, I looked round in puzzlement at the half-consumed bottles of Rioja, the gluey sticks of bought-in chicken satay and the tubes of Pringles, and thought to myself, "Why?" Then, feeling slightly sick, I began to twig. I racked my brains, searching for moments when I might have "led him on", or "given him the wrong idea", and could find nothing. I started to panic.

"He's upstairs. Getting ready," said one of the flatmates, smiling.

"He's so excited," said the other.

That was it. "I'll go through to the living-room and wait there," I said, trying to sound casual.

Swiftly, I by-passed the living-room and headed straight out the front door.

He avoided me at work, after that, and then moved on. I bumped into him outside Waterstones a year later.

"How the world turns! How are you?" he asked.

"Fine, yeah. You?" I could sense what was coming.

"I'm engaged to be married. We’re expecting a baby next June. And I love my new job. Life really couldn’t be any better. Are you with anyone…?"

"Nope.”

"Same old job?"

"Yep."

"That’s too bad," he smirked.

Not really, I thought.

He’d aimed for the jugular but it was only a glancing blow. I turned away. The sun was coming out and I didn’t want to watch it make his skull gleam whitely through his wispy Art Garfunkel hair.