The Scorpion in the Flames

#2 Millennial Menoirs

It all started with Jan Clover’s honey. Glowing gold in the June sunlight, tasting like elderflower and lilacs quite unlike the ashes and unrest from where you were visiting. I had fleetingly considered that going on a date with a war journalist would be interesting and you had appeared that very night, your large brown eyes and intense stare penetrating my screen. The only war journalist I’d ever seen on a dating app, and one I had seemingly summoned. We arranged to meet and I bought you honey from the village riverside to sweeten your stay, your return home a result of losing your so-loved grandfather.

I handed you the jar as we met at the station, looking up the length of your neck at your face as your cheeks bloomed. You tucked it into your coat pocket and we set out upon our date. You, me, and the dogs sharing chips and stories on a wet Jubilee Saturday in Birchington-on-Sea at a steamy pub, windows beating with raindrops and steaming with the breath of a hundred punters.

We had been merrily chatting on the telephone but, for a man of such height and presence, you spoke ever-so-carefully in person. Your eyes sad and soft, your hair coiled on top of your head, your words lightly flickering around your real depths. Though you spoke with seriousness, your conversation seemed rehearsed, uttered a dozen times before, so beautifully articulated in a weary, private school accent.

Without regard for the weather we set out on the coastal walk to Westgate and met a woman chalking a mural on the sea wall. She insisted that we admire it before the storm washed it away again. “The storm?” we mused as we continued on our way. A man with a grim expression skimmed our heels racing by on his mobility scooter, a helium balloon of the queen’s face flapping wildly over his hunched form. What’s he rushing for? I wondered, before finally noting the colour of the sky and the height of the waves now crashing the sea wall as he zig zagged into the distance, dodging each blow with determination. 

“Oh shit, shall we turn back?” I asked, though we kept going, letting the dogs off their leads, drawing closer together to brace the boiling waves now bursting along the path and tempting us to the sea.  There was little use trying to stay dry and I squealed with each wave as they stung the sea wall with jarring slaps that exploded with water. I let my hair down and I asked you to do the same. As yours fell around your face you seemed to leap away from your soft sadness like a scorpion in the flames, fire lighting the hollows of your dark eyes.

We began to tear ahead in a mad kind of unison against the danger that lay in wake, the dogs leading the way, completely in their element. You spoke freely then, raising your voice against the thrashing cymbal sea. Strands of hair whipped your hard, red cheeks and flew out behind you like the ears of the hounds, as if you were the wind. You talked fast and fiercely of boarding school friendships. How each boy had each inked the word ‘loyalty’ on their skin at 18 so that you knew you always had each other and, years later, of the morning murmurs of one-night lovers tracing your shoulder in the half-light, quietly inquiring “Loyalty?”.

As the end of the path drew closer, I was so absorbed that I barely heard the sharp “Sally!” that you cried out, your arm slinging across my chest to hold me back from the biggest wave yet; a crescendo against the rocks, fireworks of water raining down with a deafening crackle. The storm broke just as suddenly, rays of light piercing the veil. You shook the water from your body like the dogs, and immediately coiled your hair upon your head. Your eyes grew gloomy again, only this time with a gentle pleading that I would take the later train.

We enjoyed a quiet drink in a small yard, your body melting next to mine as my hand reached to stroke the ocean’s salty shrapnel from your cheek. Again you asked me to stay longer, and I would have, but I had to go. We shared part of the journey home and when I came to alight at Margate the train flooded with people. As we stood to embrace, the dogs leapt between us pushing me into a tide of bodies that swept me towards the fast-closing doors and onto the platform.

When I arrived home your voice sweeter than I’d heard it yet rang earnestly through my phone “Sally! I had SUCH a lovely time with you. The dogs adored you too. I can’t wait to come to the village and meet your lovely neighbours and see where you live. Let me figure out when I can visit this week and I’ll let you know ASAP.” I was pleasantly surprised, and excited for Alun to meet you.

Days passed. And I wasn’t so sure I would hear from you after all. Eventually you said “Actually, I don’t know what I was thinking. What with the funeral and all I won’t have time to see you before I go back. And I don’t know when I’ll be visiting again.” Your voice low and flat, lifting gently as you delivered your final sentence. “I did try a little honey though, thank you. It was wonderful.” 

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Millennial Menoirs is a new series of short stories or prose about the strange world of online dating, still somewhat centred around food (quite a few of them feature honey, curiously).

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