ESMERELDA

by
Stephen J. Golds

I called out her name.

“Esmerelda.”

It sounded foreign and strange emerging from my throat and crashing onto the concrete after all these years. Seven years. I thought about the last time I ever saw her. It was the night before she flew to the United States to look for her wino father who she’d never met. It was December and cold outside her house. She was screaming out of her bedroom window, she was telling me to go away, to fuck off. I was drunk.

She’d left the next day without so much as a fucking phone call or a goodbye and now here she was, walking in front of me on the street. She’d cut her hair short. It used to be long, down to her arse and now it was spiky and chunky. She still wore the same flowery dresses, low cut, tits out, tight around the arse. She was still stunning. Heart snatching. Soul intoxicating. Beautiful.

I called out again. If she didn’t hear me this time around then it wasn’t on the cards and the fate was fucked. I’d leave it alone.

“Esmerelda.”

She stopped.

She turned around.

She tilted her head to the side. Thinking, I supposed. Then she smiled and waved. She began walking towards me and I stopped walking and stood there. She put her hands up in the air, laughed.

She spoke. Seven years later.

“Well, hello there stranger.”

“Hello Esmerelda. Long time.”

We embraced awkwardly. I didn’t know whether to kiss her or not.

“Yeah a long time. What? It’s gotta be five years?”

“Seven. Seven years.”

“Fuck. How are you mate?”

Mate? She might as well have spat in my fucking face. She was always like that. I never did know where I stood with her. She fucked with my head. She was an expert. One day she’d fuck me and the next day she’d not even want to kiss me. Seven years ago I was a pussy whipped adolescent. I told myself I was above her games now.

“I haven’t seen you since you went to the States.”

“Yeah I know. I got back about four months ago. I lived out there the whole time. With my father, in Boston.”

“You finally met him.”

“Yeah, the first day I met him I thought I could handle it but I ended up breaking down in tears half way through the day.”

“I’m not surprised. You had a lot of guts.”

“Its funny, I always thought I took after my mother, looked like her but now I know I take after my dad. I just don’t have the beard.”

“So how come you’re back in England?”

“My mothers dying.”

“Oh. Shit. I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s okay. To tell the truth, I didn’t really want to have to come back. I kept hoping the plane was going to turn around half way over the Atlantic. It didn’t though and I found myself back in England. Smelly, shitty England with all its nutters and weirdo’s. I’m looking after my mother, caring for her and all of that stuff. I’m living there now, in the same old house. Do you remember?”

“Yeah, how could I forget? I thought about you a lot over the years. Every time I heard a song by The Beatles I thought of you.”

She smiled a little and tapped her index finger against her lips. It was a nervous reaction but part of me hoped it was a sign that she wanted me to kiss her. I didn’t and we were enveloped by a dry silence. I had to break it.

“You always said I was cheesy.”

“Yeah. I did and you were. You always said that I was a head fuck.”

“I did and you were.”

“I had a lot of boyfriends who said the same things in The States. Maybe I’ll never change. I’m just a typical woman. Indecisive.”

A lot of boyfriends? So, she was telling me she was basically a fucking whore after we broke up. She might as well have cut my scrotum open and let my balls slide out onto the pavement. I tried to smile and laugh. I couldn’t believe I was feeling sucker punched after seven years.

“You’re not a typical woman.”

“Thanks. I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You’re a typical cunt.”

“Oi’ you.”

She hit me in the chest with a small fist.

“I’m joking. I’m only joking”

“I know. Your fucked up sense of humour was what I loved about you.”

“You loved me?”

“Maybe, I don’t know. What the hell are we doing discussing all this past out here on the street anyway after seven years?”

Her eyes were looking around now, to every car that drove past us. She put her hand on my arm, squeezed and then let her hand fall away.

“Look, I have to get going. I need to go to the pharmacy and then the supermarket and I’ve got all this bullshit college work to catch up on.”

“You’re studying?”

“Yeah. I’m a regular swot now.”

She smiled. I tried to smile.

“Well, I guess this is goodbye, again, Esmerelda.”

“It’s been nice catching up with you mate.”

There was the gob again, sliding down the lenses on my glasses. I made a last ditch effort. Though I didn’t even know why I was bothering.

“Do you, maybe want to go for a drink or something sometime?”

She screwed up her face. My guts began to ache. She flushed, embarrassed.

“Err… No… Not really. I’m sorry. I’ll think about it.”

“Fucking hell. I said a drink not a date.”

“I know what you said and I said I’d think about it.”

“You really haven’t changed a bit have you.”

“I told you so.”

“You’ll think about it though?”

I was actually making myself sick. How desperate did I sound? She must have known I hadn’t fucked anyone else since she went to America. Now I was almost grovelling for a quickie with her and she loved every moment of it. The fucking cock tease.

“Do you want my number then?”

I was so pathetic.

She walked away, leaving me stood there before blowing me a kiss and calling back; “I’ll find a way to let you know if I change my mind.”

I watched her arse swing side to side in that flowery dress and knew I would masturbate over her that night. She probably knew it too. Those types of women always do.

© Stephen J. Golds
Reproduced with permission

---