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“The Girl Who Came To Stay”
I never meant to end up in New York. It was sort of an accident, a mistake; but as mistakes go, I suppose I could have been worse off. My plan, my dream, had been Montreal – a place studying at Concordia or McGill. I'd go to class every day, improve on my school French, and fall in love with a stunning Québecoise. I had it all thought out.
Except I didn't. Not really, anyway. Any member of my family could have warned me against flying from Manchester to Montreal before I got my place at university sorted, but I've never been very good at letting people know about my plans. Unfortunately, my grades were far from adequate (it had been a few years since I left school, and I guess I'd somewhat forgotten my status as an academic plebe). Also, my spoken French was barely good enough to order a beer. What's that old phrase? Fools rush in. I'd been in Montreal no longer than a week, and I was already running out of money... That's when I met Robbie.
He was staying in the same hostel as me, and I think we were partly drawn together because our accents, his American, mine English, were mutually easier to understand than the bizarre, often incomprehensible blend of languages spoken by the locals.
Robbie told me that the only reason he was even in Canada was because of a girl he'd been seeing. Her name was Sandrine, and in my mind's eye I saw her as the Montreal beauty I'd been hoping to find. Robbie had met her when she was on holiday in the Big Apple, and they'd been so “into each other” that he dropped everything (meaning he quit a crappy job and left the squat where he'd been living) to come to Montreal and be with her. Less than a month later, she decided it wasn't working and threw him out. At which point, he found a hostel to stay in while he looked for the cheapest way back to New York.
We bonded over our shared experiences; feeling foreign and alone in a new city, having our plans dashed. Robbie needed to get back to the States to find a job and a place to live, but I had no idea what I needed or even wanted to do. When Robbie heard that I'd never been to New York City, he suggested that I accompany on the train down. At first I said no, and he responded with faux-begging. Just for a little while, he said, you never know, you might like it. Love it, even.
I knew I'd love it. I also knew that I liked Robbie a great deal; he had an infectious enthusiasm that got under my skin and made me think that some time in New York might be a good idea. And besides, what the hell was keeping me here? Some romantic fantasy and an unattainable ambition. “Screw that,” Robbie said, and the next morning we were getting onto a train bound for New York.
I know what you're probably thinking; penniless, dumb ass Brit screws up, and tries to solve all his problems by going to perhaps the most expensive city imaginable. But it didn't sound as stupid as that when Robbie said it. He made it sound like an adventure.
As I'm sure you can imagine, the illusion didn't last very long. It's difficult to feel intrepid or adventurous when you're working in a grimy watering hole, sharing a tiny apartment with someone you've only just met, someone who seemed like an exciting new friend in Montreal but now looks more like one of those young Americans you see on TV, who falls through the cracks and drinks far too much. It wasn't even as if I saw much of Robbie, between my long hours at the bar and his job in a local thrift store (a depressing place where he could nurse his hangovers without fear of interruption from the outside world). There's this little unfunny joke that we shared, that we both worked with throwaways; Robbie put price tags on them, I poured them drinks. And as for making any other new friends... all I wanted to do when I got home from work was go to sleep, to shut my eyes and ears to this city and pass as much time as I could in bed before I had to get up and head back out to the bar.
It was on one of these soul-destroying nights at Mick's Bar & Grill (ignore the 'grill' part, we don't actually serve real food), on a night that started out just as boring and uneventful as any other, that my life changed, although of course I didn't know it at the time. I'd soon be caught up in something unlike anything I'd ever experienced, something that I would come out of as a different person. This change came in the form of a young woman with dirty blonde hair. She walked into Mick's Bar & Grill around ten thirty, three hours after my shift began, and the sight of a fresh face among a roomful of drunk, deadbeat regulars instantly aroused my interest.
She perched herself on one of the high stools at the bar, and asked for a beer. Now that she was closer, she didn't look any older than eighteen or nineteen, which for some reason was underage in this country, but I handed her a chilled brown bottle anyway. She smiled appreciatively, almost as if she'd been half expecting me to refuse, and leaned forward to pick it up, moving directly underneath one of the lights above the bar. At this point I noticed something that had been previously obscured by the dim lighting; somebody had given her a black eye. Quite a shiner, too – shades of purple, blue, even green. I pretended not to have seen it, and went back to polishing glasses. But she was the only person sat at the bar, and I was the only person behind it, so small talk started to flicker over the stale peanuts and damp beermats. She talked about the unseasonal weather, and I said I had no idea what to expect either way. Then she quizzed me about my accent. She said she'd never been to England, had in fact never even left the States, but she definitely wanted to travel someday.
Then she got out a pack of cigarettes, and I could see her fingers trembling as she attempted to light one. I ended up lighting it for her, and placed a chipped tankard on the bar as means of an ashtray, even though I had a vague notion that smoking wasn't exactly encouraged in pubs here.
“Thanks,” she said, fidgeting less now that she had her cigarette.
“No problem,” I replied. “My name's Sid.”
“Lyla.”
“So, Lyla,” I was purposely polishing the same glass, so as not to turn away from her, “how come you're all alone on a Friday night?”
“It's Saturday night.”
“Question still stands.” I smiled but inwardly kicked myself. How could I have lost track of the days? “As my good friend Elton says, Saturday night's alright for a party.”
“Elton John!” She grinned and nodded. Then she seemed to change her mind, and shook her head. “No partying for me tonight...” She leaned forward again, and whispered in my ear; “I'm in trouble, see.”
I took in her bruised face again and tried to ignore the feeling I'd just got from the warmth of her breath so close to my skin.
“I can see that,” I said, finally setting down the now spotless glass and turning around to pick up another. I took that split second to get a hold of myself and pray that my sudden hard-on would go away. Then I turned back to Lyla and asked exactly what kind of trouble she was in.
“Man trouble,” she said. “The main trouble being, the men I go with are all bastards.” She took one final drag on the cigarette, and dipped into the tankard to put it out. “Filthy, sleazy, fucking bastards.” She firmly prodded the cigarette down with each word, which seemed to make her feel a little better.
“Is there one particular bastard behind that?” I asked, feeling bold enough to gesture to her face. She nodded.
“Lost his temper. Oh, he was so sorry the second he'd done it, but of course it was too late by then. If a man hits me,” she flicked her hair out of her face to better show off the bruise, “he only does it once. I walked out then and there. God, that was only a few hours ago... I've been wandering around for what feels like forever.”
“Just long enough for that shiner to come through; no wonder you needed a drink.” I said, putting another beer in front of her and taking away the bottle that she had, at some point, drained.
“Takes the edge off, I guess,” she looked me up and down, “and the company's not half bad. But I'm actually waiting for someone – my cousin. I called him a little while ago. He told me to come meet him here, he wants to make sure I'm alright. Don't see him anywhere, though. And God only knows why he chose a dive like this, of all places...” She glanced at me, guiltily. “No offense.”
“None taken,” I said, smiling, at which point a familiar figure walked in and we both said his name:
“Robbie!”
Lyla and I turned to each other, then back to Robbie.
“You know him?” She asked, as he walked over.
“Sure, he's my roommate,” I replied, instinctively reaching to get him a beer. “Don't tell me Robbie's the cousin you've been waiting for.”
“One and the same,” Robbie said, sitting down next to Lyla. “I only remembered after you hung up the phone that I'd not told you my friend works here, that's the reason I suggested the place. I knew Sid here would look after you.” He smiled at me, then his expression grew more serious as he looked back to Lyla and her black eye. “So are you going to tell me who did this to you?”
“My dirtbag boyfriend,” she told him, “but don't worry, I left the son of a bitch. I don't really know why I called you, I mean, I just couldn't think of anybody else. I've only been in the city a few weeks, I came down from Albany to see how things would be living with Dick.”
I resisted the urge to snigger at her boyfriend's name, and instead asked;
“So he hit you after just a few weeks together?”
“Pretty much. We dated for a while before, he would take me out whenever he was up in Albany, and then last month I just got so crazy tired of home, I knew I needed a change. So I called up Dick and asked him how he'd like it if I stayed with him for a while, and he was really into it. I suppose that should have been my first clue that he wasn't normal – I mean, what man is fine with a girl moving in with him straight away?”
Now I couldn't help thinking that Lyla had probably come to the city just a short time after me. And I knew all too well that “crazy tired” feeling she'd described. The conversation went on for a lot longer, and both Robbie and Lyla proceeded to get drunk as they waited for my shift to end. Then Robbie gave Lyla his keys and told her to go to our apartment and get some rest. Before she left, he got her to tell us Dick's address. After that, she wouldn't go until we promised not to kill him. Robbie begrudgingly raised his hand, scout-style, and swore not to commit murder that night. I did the same, bemused. Then she walked out of the bar, and Robbie told me that while we might not be allowed to kill Dick, there wasn't a thing anyone could do that would stop him roughing him up just a little.
I went along with Robbie to Dick's place, an apartment in a building that looked even dodgier than ours, if at all possible. I knocked on the door three times, standing in front of Robbie so that he wouldn't flatten the bastard the moment he opened the door. In the few seconds that we were standing there in the hallway, waiting for him to respond, I found myself wondering what he looked like. For one punch to bruise so badly, there must have been some strength in it. I imagined a beefy knucklehead, or a sinewy, short-tempered ogre. In reality, Dick was something of a disappointment; thin as hell, very tall but not at all intimidating, and only attractive if you had a thing for geeks. He was so different from how I had imagined him, so far from my briefly conceived notion of what he would be like, that for a second I thought we had the wrong apartment. But when he opened the door, and the first thing he did was give a huge sigh of relief, I knew we'd found him.
“I thought you were cops,” he said, although it sounded more like exhaling. “Do you live in the building? I'm sorry about the noise earlier...”
“Oh, I bet you're fucking sorry,” Robbie pushed past me and shoved Dick backwards, crossing the threshold into the apartment. I followed in silence, knowing that I wanted to hurt this man too for what he'd done, but also anxious to be gone, to get away from this seedy place, to get back to our own apartment where Lyla was waiting.
“Tell you what,” I said, closing the door behind us and trying to sound like this happened to me all the time, “I'll give you five minutes alone with this 'gent' while I go and get some of Lyla's things together. Then we're out of here. How does that sound?”
“Five minutes is all I need,” Robbie growled, and I nodded, trying not to meet Dick's panicky gaze. Poor fucker. I almost felt sorry for him, he obviously wasn't going to be up to defending himself against this protective familial wrath. Then again, he should have thought about that before hitting a girl who was even smaller and frailer-looking than him.
I found my own way into the bedroom (it wasn't hard, the place was tiny) and started rooting around in the wardrobe for girls' clothing. I stuffed two pairs of jeans, some tops, and socks into a duffel bag that I found under the bed, then grabbed a handful of underwear and a bra from a drawer, and shoved it into the bag before I could even assimilate how the material felt against my palm, against my skin.
Through the paper-thin wall, I heard the ugly sounds of what I imagined to be Robbie's fist colliding with Dick's face, mirroring what had happened to Lyla earlier that night. A pathetic yelp came through the wall, like a small dog being kicked. I paced the room for as long as I could bear, maybe a whole minute, then walked back into the main room with the duffel bag in one hand.
“Time to go,” I said. Robbie looked at me, and I saw some of the rage fading from his face, like steam clearing from a mirror. I didn't look at Dick – whatever kind of state he was in, whatever he'd suffered in the last couple of moments, I didn't want to know. We left without saying another word to him.
On our way back to our own place, Robbie and I talked. We decided that Lyla would stay with us for a month or two, or however long it took to get herself sorted. By the time we were halfway home, Robbie was a different person. He suggested that we take Lyla to our favourite diner for breakfast the next morning, and then told me he had a sudden craving for waffles. The abrupt change made me slightly uneasy – where had the vengeful thug gone?
When we got back to the apartment, the door was unlocked. Lyla was curled up asleep on our relic of a sofa. I placed the bag of her belongings on the tiny coffee table and locked the door, while Robbie retrieved a blanket from somewhere and draped it over her still, tiny form. She looked even younger this way, even more vulnerable.
I walked into the kitchen (which was actually just the other half of the living room), and ran the cold tap for a few seconds before filling myself a glass of water. I drained it in one go, and poured another. I drank this more slowly, and filled the glass a third time, taking this into my room and placing it on the tiny stand next to my bed. I went back into the main room of the apartment to say goodnight to Robbie, and what I saw silenced me. He was standing next to the sofa, watching Lyla sleep, but the look on his face was impossible to read. On the one hand it could have been the quiet affection of a protective cousin, but on the other it could have been the same look that I saw him get only once before, when he was telling me about the Montreal girlfriend who broke his heart. I went back into my own room and closed the door without saying a word.
The next morning, we took Lyla to the breakfast place two blocks away, just as we had planned. Robbie's hankering for waffles seemed to have vanished overnight, as he tucked into banana pancakes. Lyla just nibbled on a piece of toast, while going through numerous coffee refills. I wasn't particularly hungry either, forcing down half an omelette before pushing the plate back and drinking ice water to try and alleviate the churning in my stomach.
None of us talked much while we ate, and it was only when Robbie had finished his breakfast and washed it down with a full cup of coffee that he spoke. He asked Lyla what she was going to do now her little vacation in the city was over, and she replied that whatever she ended up doing, she sure as hell wasn't going back to Albany. I wanted to ask what was so bad about her home that she was so adamant about staying away, but then I thought about my own determination to make a life for myself in any city other than the one I came from.
“I think I'm going to stay here,” Lyla said, “and see what happens. I mean, this town is the center of the universe, right? If I'm going to find myself, or whatever, I doubt there's a better place.”
“Agreed,” Robbie nodded heartily. I nodded too, reluctant to mention my lack of personal development since coming to the Big Apple. “Sorry,” Robbie went on, “but I gotta jet. I should have been at work half an hour ago.”
“Won't you get fired?” Lyla asked, gesturing for yet another top up from our waitress.
“Nah, they'll just stick me with stock check or something equally boring, as a punishment. But I really do have to go. Sid, would you mind looking after her for the day?”
“Oh yeah, because I'm likely to go playing in traffic or something,” Lyla scoffed. “I'm not a child, Robbie, I don't need a babysitter.”
“You know what I mean,” he grinned and stood up. “You don't mind, do you Sid?”
“No at all,” I said, wondering how old Lyla actually was. “We'll go to Central Park or something. You know, I've been here for ages and I haven't seen it yet.”
“Perfect!” Robbie ruffled Lyla's hair, much to her annoyance, and then he left. It was only as he was crossing the street, with me watching him through the diner window, that I realised there had been no mention of last night's events.
In the end we didn't go to the park, but instead just walked the streets in the unseasonably bright sun. Lyla's caffeine buzz was evident; she walked faster than me, often running ahead to look at something, then dancing on the spot while waiting for me to catch up. Every now and then she would shove me playfully, or grab my hand and drag me towards something that had caught her attention. In an odd way, it felt like a date. We talked about our favourite films, what kind of food we loved, where we would love to travel... we talked about everything and anything, except ourselves.
Later on, when I had to go to the bar for a shift, she came with me. She sat at a small table next to a jukebox that no longer functioned as a jukebox typically should, but instead just played old numbers by Billy Joel, no matter what song had actually been requested. When “Uptown Girl” came on, much to the frustration of a customer who had wanted “Blaze of Glory”, Lyla's face lit up a tiny bit, and she smiled into her glass.
It was a fairly busy night at Mick's, or busy at least compared to my regular shifts which were usually quieter than the grave, but I still found myself watching Lyla from across the room whenever I wasn't fixing a drink or taking money. Robbie swung by about halfway through the night, and offered to take Lyla home. She shook her head, and said she liked Mick's. I looked at her incredulously, and she shrugged. Still, a tiny part of my wasn't surprised. If her taste was unconventional enough to include Dick, then I wouldn't deny her this tiny squalid square of Brooklyn.
Over the next two weeks, my affection for Lyla grew. As time passed and her bruise faded, I began to notice how astonishingly attractive she was – not like a Hollywood actress, but like an ugly duckling that is well on its way to becoming a swan. Her soft, pink lips were parted just a tiny bit by her front teeth, and her ears stuck out just enough that it was noticeable, but I found this made her all the more beguiling. And her manner was cute as hell; always fidgeting and swaying, like she couldn't stand still for more than a split second, or all the energy in her body would build up and up and up until she exploded.
Every now and then I would look at her, and then look at Robbie, trying to spot some trace of a family resemblance. I couldn't. They both had brownish blonde hair, and blue eyes, but while Lyla's were pale and wide, Robbie's were darker, narrower. They had different noses, cheekbones, chins... and yet their appearances complimented each other. Even if a passerby didn't instantly dismiss them as relatives, one might guess that they were a couple. And I suppose it was with that thought that my problem really began.
It was just little things, really. Things that anybody other than me might not see, because they weren't looking for them. Like once, I walked into the living room and Lyla was giving Robbie a hug, I think she was thanking him for his help, but something about their embrace seemed a bit off – it lasted a moment too long, their bodies brushed too closely together... I was driving myself insane by noticing such things.
And even if my suspicions weren't ever fully confirmed, they were encouraged at every turn. One particular night lodged itself in my memory, and I would later come to think of it as the closest I would ever get to the truth about Robbie and Lyla.
It was my first night off work in what felt like weeks, which in reality it probably was. All I wanted to do was sleep. Lyla was out wandering, Robbie was out drinking somewhere - I had the apartment all to myself. I ate some leftover pizza for dinner, had a glass of water, and went to bed early. The sun had barely set. But only a short while later, Robbie came stumbling through the front door, quite obviously drunk. He must have started quite early, to be so pissed so soon. This wasn’t such an unusual occurrence in itself, but even from the relative sanctuary of my room, I could tell just from the sounds of crashing and banging that he was going to either pass out soon, or knock himself unconscious against some kitchen object. So I got out of bed, sighing with the weariness of a not yet canonised saint, and walked into the living room. By now he had draped himself over the sofa, and was breathing so heavily that even though his eyes were open, I could have sworn he was snoring.
"Hey Rob," I ventured. "Good night?"
"Mm," he grunted. "Sup, Sid."
I smiled noncommittally and then asked him if he would like any help getting to his room. Which, it turned out, was a mistake.
"Koff," he said, an expression he had acquired from me. "I’m not a retard. You’re like my babysitter, man, always trying to, to, to look after me. I’m not a baby."
"Sorry," I tried to look contrite, wondering if his clearer speech was a sign that he was sobering up. Most likely not.
"You’re just like my dad, man. I’m not as much of a screw-up as my dad says, you know?"
"I know."
"She knows. My dad tried to tell her all sorts of stuff about me, but she wouldn’t hear a word. She even stuck up for me, man, and nobody ever stuck up to my old man before."
"Are you talking about Lyla? Is that why the two of you are so close?"
"It was at some birthday party. An aunt or an uncle. My dad was telling anyone who would listen about me, about how I was the only kid on the block who hadn’t learned to ride a bike yet... He said How do you suppose he’ll ever get a girl, if he can’t even get his leg over two wheels? And all the grown-ups laughed, because even though they didn’t like my dad all that much, they were a little bit scared of him. But she wasn’t. She walked right up to him and said There aint nothing wrong with Robbie, sir." Robbie’s eyes were wet. "Happiest moment I’d ever in my life so far," he said. "And my dad, well he just looked at her, she’d surprised him. And he wasn’t about to get into an argument with some girl, so he just went into another room."
"That was very sweet of her," I said. "I wish I’d had someone to stick up for me when I was younger."
"I thanked her later on," Robbie continued. "The party went on for ages, and it started to get dark, and me and her, we were sat in the back yard. I don’t know where all the other kids had gone, the cousins and other relative’s brats, but it was just the two of us. and I said I didn’t think anyone had ever been as nice to me as her, and she just smiled. I was thirteen, which I guess made her twelve.”
The way he said their ages made me feel uneasy for some reason.
“I kissed her on the lips as it was getting dark, and there was a bee buzzing round the back yard. She didn’t kiss me back, but she didn’t not, you know? Anyway, I kind of forgot for a minute that she was my cousin, and the bee just kept on buzzing around the back yard. I don’t think we ever mentioned that to each other again, but she was still the only person to ever stand up to my Pop.”
A short while later, Robbie fell asleep. I went back to bed and lay awake for hours, and when I finally managed to close my eyes and drift off, my dreams were short and fitful, filled with buzzing and a hot, uncomfortable feeling.
The next morning I didn't say anything to Robbie about what he'd told me, and I doubt he even remembered our conversation. Things like this had happened before; he would be so plastered by the time he got home that any interaction with me, or anybody else, disappeared from his mind while he slept. Just this once, I was thankful.
After that, I spent a little less time with Lyla. It wasn't that I was uncomfortable around her, not exactly; I had just lost the ease with which I could talk to her, and I thought that if we spent time together, she would notice this and ask why. She still came to the bar every so often, but I would always act busier than I really was. And I feigned tiredness more and more when we were in the apartment, going to my room and shutting the door, only to lie awake and imagine that I could hear all sorts of things going on in the room next to mine.
Finally I felt that something needed to be done. I needed to ask somebody questions, and I knew that both Robbie and Lyla would almost definitely clam up at the mere mention of a birthday party when they were kids. I needed someone I could bully, someone I could force to answer me. And I knew just the person.
Dick's face had healed almost as well as Lyla's; that was the first thing I noticed when he opened is door to me. He saw me and immediately tried to slam it shut, but I had anticipated this, and shoved it forward; it swung wide open, narrowly skimming the air in front of his nose that, had he not stepped back, would have resulted in a resounding 'crunch'.
“I'm not going to hurt you,” I said as I let myself in. “I just want to talk.”
“Isn't that what you said the last time?”
“I don't know, I can't remember.” It was true – that night felt like a million years ago.
“What do you want?”
“I just told you, I want to talk. I have some questions.” I gestured to his ratty sofa, an aged thing that made ours look brand new, and we both sat down.
“What kind of questions?”
“I want to know about Lyla.”
Dick exhaled heavily, and replied: “You're asking the wrong dude.”
“The two of you dated though, isn't that right? She must have talked to you about... things. You know, stuff.”
“We talked, yeah, but only ever about stuff that she wanted to. If you ever brought up a subject she didn't like, she would stick out that bottom lip and sulk like a princess until you let it drop.”
I nodded. I might not have known Lyla for very long, but I got the same impression.
“So what were the two of you fighting about, that night?” My face hardened. “What tantrum were you trying to slap her out of?”
“It wasn't like that, not at all.”
“Then what was it like? Tell me, please.”
“She's crazy, man. I mean sure, she's a hottie, but she's got the devil in her. That night you came round here, things went down a lot different to what she told you. She was having some kind of episode, throwing her arms and legs around everywhere, she started to attack me, screaming her head off – I only meant to hold her away, maybe push her back a little, but I just lost control and before I knew it, she was on the floor.”
I didn't know how much of Dick's story to believe, but as I walked back to our apartment, taking the longest route I could think of, I started to wonder what it was that Lyla had absolutely refused to discuss.
She was asleep when I got home, on the sofa that had become her throne-come-bed for the duration of her stay. I could hear Robbie's snores coming from his room. I sighed heavily, went into the bathroom, and sat on the edge of the bath for a long time, staring at a stain on the floor. I don't know how long I was sat there, but eventually my eyelids began to droop and my head kept falling forward. I went into my room and climbed into the bed, only stopping to take off my shoes. I slept deeply, with yet more odd dreams.
The next night, I was behind the bar and Lyla was perched on a stool, maybe even the very same one that she had sat on that first night. I took the plunge, and said as casually as I could:
“Robbie mentioned his dad is kind of a hard-ass.” She nodded in agreement, then murmured:
“Nothing compared to mine.”
“What's that?”
“Nothing. Well, not really.”
“Oh, go on. Don't leave me hanging.” I tried to sound light-hearted, but in the pit of my stomach had a feeling that everything was about to fall into place.
“Why do you think I was so desperate to leave Albany?” Lyla looked me dead in the eye. “So desperate that I was willing to move in with Dick. My dad, he's a bastard. Complete and utter, without a single redeeming feature. I'd finally had enough, and I left him.”
“You say you 'left him', like the two of you were a couple or something.”
“Family relationships are ten times as hard to sever as romantic ones. Having a bastard for a father is like being a battered wife – you never have the heart to get out.”
“But you did, didn't you?”
“It took me long enough. I spent long years waiting for somebody to notice, I had this fantasy of being rescued. But it never happened. A long time ago, I stood up to Robbie's dad for him, hoping that he would do the same for me. But he never did. I love that boy, but he is such a fool sometimes. He thought it was all about him, he always thinks it's about him, but it wasn't that time. It was about me sending him a message, an SOS, and he was too blind to see it.”
“It must have felt long overdue, then,” I said carefully, “to send him to Dick's apartment.” Lyla just looked at me, and said nothing more until my shift ended and we walked home together.
“Goodnight, Sid,” she whispered once we were through the door. She kissed me, on the cheek, touching my hand as she did so.
“Night, Lyla,” I whispered back. I lightly touched her hair, and she seemed to quiver under my touch as if she were made of nothing but air and feathers. I said goodnight again, and went into my room. I lay awake for a long time, and after a while, I was fairly certain that the silence of the apartment was broken by the sound of somebody getting up off the sofa, tiptoeing across the room, and a door opening. A second later, I almost definitely heard the creaking of a mattress under extra weight. I closed my eyes and prayed for sleep to come.
“Sid, you were talking in your sleep. I think you were having a bad dream.”
“Really?”
“Yeah... who's Lyla?”
“What?”
“Lyla. You were saying the name, over and over. Is she an ex of yours?”
“No, nothing like that.” So I told her that Lyla was just someone I knew in America, a part of my life that was well and truly over. “The subconscious is an odd thing,” I said, “who's to know why I was dreaming about a girl I barely even knew?”
She shrugged, then smiled, and kissed me before getting dressed. I smiled back, and kissed her back, and watched her put on her clothes and leave my tiny flat to go to work. Then I turned over in bed, pulled the blanket up over my shoulders, and closed my eyes again.
