Short Stories: The Lament of David Davies

18:34

It was as good as it could be; he thought, staring at the pained effort in front of him. David had made fine use of the miniature wicker table that came with the flat; he convinced himself that the size of it would be an advantage, despite it being designed for a medium sized potted houseplant. To tackle this, though, he cleverly planned the entrée: home­made sushi with an emphasis on peeled prawns. He had not peeled them and planned not to tell that to Yvette. David knows very well how masterful French cuisine is and lying about peeling prawns may give him just enough leverage to begin and in a perfect world hold a conversation. In fact, David had not been near a knife or chopping board all evening; ­ he simply did not have time. He had popped into the supermarket on the way home from work and bought several packs of vegetable sushi and peeled prawns to bring home. A quick twenty­minute swap of carrot to prawn meant David had some time to spare before Yvette’s arrival. And here he stands, in a faded black shirt matched intentionally with pressed black trousers and vaguely villainous pointy shoes (mostly his work outfit) watching the table with its plates and candles upon it and wondering: was it really as good as it could be?

He started to panic (behaviour he actioned so often it was almost comforting as it was so familiar). Something indeed was missing, but he could not put his finger on it. Instead, he put his finger in his ear and rubbed relentlessly; a small idiosyncrasy he would partake in when he was anxious. Almost immediately however it came to him: music. Spinning on his heel he reached under his elevated sofa and pulled out a box of tapes and largely blank CDs. Furiously he scanned them, knowing that he’d have to listen to several to set the mood right. Incidentally, however, an image of a corn­rowed man in black glasses whizzed past, and a lightbulb lit in David’s head. Flicking back he found a Stevie Wonder single and it read My Cherie Amour. David took this to be a sign and decided that this night must be fate. Indeed, tonight will be fateful though perhaps not the way David requires it to be.

He snatched the CD and marched to his Hi­fi system often used as a podium for morning tea. Opening the tray, he takes out the self­-help CD played previously and put in the Steve Wonder single. Hot panic struck again: where could he put the self­-help CD? It was certainly a sign of weakness, and consequentially David followed without much thought a very primitive impulse: he snapped and binned it. For the sake of dignity, he chose to ignore the sweat running down his forehead. The display read Track 1 and David pushed play. The timer appeared at 0:00. David closed his eyes, hoping that this would be the missing element to his cosmically important evening. He waited for a noise, and it came. Three knocks from behind him; three very wooden knocks that made his heart leap into his mouth. He checked his watch; it read 18:51.

David suddenly felt very ill. Surely she cannot be this early, he thought. The speakers crackled, and Stevie’s band started with flutes. Three knocks came again, and David had to sit down. He wasn’t ready. It was too early. He hadn’t even looked in the mirror yet to hear one of David Davies’ motivational speeches. He fanned his face with a fat hand, and a feeling of dread flushed David as Stevie’s voice echoed around the room. Maybe he could just ignore it, he thought.

Pretend no one is in, he pondered. Was it too late to turn the volume down? David closed his eyes. He remembered his birthday of soiled pants. He remembered the office bullies. What would they do in this situation? Undoubtedly they’d answer the door, he thought. And so he did.

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