Where new writing finds its voice
Short Story

You, Me, Pen, Paper, Words

Jason Jackson

We’re sitting opposite each other on the floor, a blank sheet of paper between us. I know this is the last chance. Your perfume is different today and it’s making me paranoid. I’m holding the pen and I write the first word. 

You turn the paper around. ‘Lost?’ you say. ‘In what sense?’

I smile. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, in what sense do you mean the word, lost?’ 

‘In no sense whatsoever.’ I put the pen down. ‘I merely wrote it.’

You’re nodding, slowly. ‘Weird choice.’

‘I know,’ I nod back. ‘That’s what I thought too. Your turn.’

You go to pick up the pen, then stop. ‘Explain this to me again.’

‘It’s not difficult.’ Frustration already. Not good. ‘You write down a word which comes from the word I wrote down.’

‘In what sense do you mean comes from?’

I wave my hands around like it’s going to help. ‘You know. Inspired by. Following on from. Linked to. Something like that.’

‘Like a word association kind of thing?’ 

‘Exactly that,’ I nod.

‘Wouldn’t it be easier if we just said them out loud, like normal people?’

‘Normal people?’ I say and you just frown. ‘Well, this way we have a record. In case there are any disputes.’

‘Disputes?’

‘Yeah, you know. Like, eventually, you might say a word you’ve already said, or one that I’ve already said, and then I win. And if we’ve got a list then we can check back and confirm the repetition.’

You don’t say anything at first; you just suck in some air. Then, in a parody of my earnest, high pitch, ‘Confirm the repetition?’ 

‘Yeah.’

You shift on the floor so you’re sitting side-on to me. ‘So, this is, like, a game?  There’s a competitive element here?’

‘There’s a competitive element here, yes.’

‘And is there a prize?’

‘Of course.’ And as I say this, I’m starting to think, hey, this might not be such a bad idea after all. I’m starting to think, this could actually be fun.

‘What do I win?’ Your smile’s back, and suddenly I’m not losing you, suddenly we’re just playing a game, having fun. Suddenly everything’s normal. 

I lean over, shove you. ‘What do you mean, what do you win?’ We’re both giggling now. ‘You might not win. I might win.’

‘Okay, so what do we win?’

I shrug. ‘I hadn’t actually thought about that.’

‘Don’t you think you should?’

I shift my weight from my left buttock to my right. ‘Obviously.’ 

You’re really smiling now. ‘How about, if I win, you go down on me?’ 

‘And if I win?’

‘I go down on you.’ Bigger smile. 

I pick up the pen, start to chew the end of it. The world is opening up beneath me again. That feeling. That fucking feeling.  ‘I’m not sure,’ I say.

And now, suddenly, there’s no smile at all. ‘In what possible way can you not be sure?’

‘Let me get this straight,’ I say, hating myself. ‘If I win, you suck me off, right?’

A sigh. ‘Right.’

‘Which means, if you lose, you have to suck me off.’

A bigger sigh. ‘That’s the same thing.’

‘No. It’s not the same thing at all. What it implies is this: sucking me off is something undesirable, something that you would rather avoid.’

‘Cal,’ you say, uselessly.

‘Equally, it implies that, should I lose, going down on you is something that I have to do, something that I would rather have avoided.’

‘Jesus.’ You’re not looking at me. Outside the window, it’s raining.

‘And I don’t know about you, but I enjoy oral sex, both the giving and the receiving of it.’

You grab the pen from my hand and start doodling on the paper. ‘Let’s just have some other kind of prize.’

‘Like what?’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ you shrug.  ‘How about, if I win, you pay for dinner or something? And, you know, vice versa.’

‘That still implies–’ I start, but you don’t let me finish.

‘Cal, nothing is being implied here.’ You slam down the pen. ‘We’re just playing a game.’

‘You’re right, you’re right.’ I hold up my hands, palms towards you. ‘Your turn.’

‘What?’

I push the paper towards you. ‘Your turn.’

You lean in towards me a little, and I can smell the sweat off you, under your new perfume. ‘You mean I have to follow “lost”?’

‘That was my word, yes.’

‘But that was ages ago, now.’

‘Still.’ I’m waving my hands again, a drowning man.

‘It’s hardly free association, is it?’

‘You think you’ve had too long to think about it?’  

‘I have, Cal. I have.’

‘Fine.’ My voice is too high. ‘We’ll start again then, shall we?’ 

The biggest of sighs. ‘Why not?’

I write the new first word and turn the paper for you to see.

‘Found?’ you say slowly.

‘Write a word, write a word!’ My voice is like I’m five years old.

You look at me for a long time; then you write your word.

‘Lost,’ I say, picking up the sheet.

‘Lost, Cal. Absolutely.’