Yes
By Victoria Hannan.
The woman who asked if I was Sophie was plain enough for me to think that if I’d said yes, nothing would’ve changed. She had stringy blonde hair that fell just below her shoulders, a black pinstriped pantsuit and an un-ironed shirt the colour of which made it look like someone had cut her down the middle and folded her insides up over the lapels of her jacket. When she spoke to me she bared her teeth and just for a second they looked like fangs.
I would’ve said yes if she wore a dress, something belted around the waist that showed she knew the value and power of her hips. She would’ve sat beside me and looked me up and down and whispered you’re not what I thought you’d be. To which I’d have responded, neither are you. I wouldn’t have looked her in the eye, I would’ve just stared at the bump on the bridge of her nose and that way she would’ve known I was really Sophie because that was their sign. Then she would’ve bought me a sandwich and watched me while I ate, her hand creeping slowly up my thigh. I would let her think this was the start of things for her and Sophie. For us. She would arrange to meet me at this same place and same time the following day, and I would agree, nodding as I stared at her nose. And this probably would have changed things.
I definitely would’ve said yes if the lines around her face didn’t map her sadness, if she seemed capable of experiencing joy or had at least known it at one time in her life. I would’ve said yes and she’d have taken me to a restaurant, the type where at the end of the meal the maitre d’ knows exactly which coat is yours and helps you put it on in a way that makes you look effortless. Her long red fingernails would clink against the cutlery like the legs of crawling crustaceans and she would tell me about men called Cameron who are looking for the one, and men called John who are not. I would watch her as she dissected the food on her plate so meticulously it would seem as though she learnt how in a science book. And then she would’ve told me everything I needed to know about how to become a successful adult. She would’ve taught me how to make people believe you love them, how to act as if things are okay when they are definitely not okay, and how to pretend you’re not dying inside. That last one, she would say as she leant towards me, her hot breath tickling my neck, is the most important. We would gulp down big glasses of wine and toast the future. And this would definitely change things.
I would’ve said yes if she didn’t brush her hair so much; if it were soft and long and smooth. I would’ve said yes and she’d have said, follow me, almost like an order but with the tenderness shared between mother and child. Without hesitation, I’d have followed her. First to her car, and then once we’d driven for miles in silence through suburban streets, up a path lined with roses. Her house would be the only house in the street with a red door and I would tell her I’d always dreamt of living in the only house in the street with a red door. She’d tell me to be quiet and say, this isn’t about you, and with a steady hand she’d open the red door. Inside, in a bright living room with big brown chairs, her entire family would be sitting, waiting for us to arrive. Everyone she’d ever loved and even some she didn’t would stand to meet Sophie: one or two even jumping from their seats because they were so excited to see me. They would all smile and drown me with a chorus of greetings, some singing hello, others hi and welcome. One of them, a balding man in his early forties, whose plaid shirt bulged around his middle, would even clap and whoop as though he were a spectator at a bullfight and the matador had just been gored. Then they’d have circled me and thrown their heads back and laughed, unable to contain their joy. As a group they would lead me into the dining room where I would sit between the man in plaid and the woman. And then we would feast on every type of meat in every form imaginable: steak, sausage, rib, loaf and more.
Then, as if by magic, everyone would know it was time to leave and they would smile and blow kisses to me as they walked through the red door and down the path lined with roses. Then it would just be me, the man in plaid and the woman. I would follow them up the stairs to a room, painted pink, with a single bed with perfect white sheets. The woman would close the door behind us and nod to the man. He would unbutton and take off his plaid shirt and it would sweep over the hairy tufts that sprouted like little trees on his mountainous shoulders. He would walk over to me and I would raise my arms as he lifted my t-shirt up and over my head. He would unzip his jeans and then with one swift motion, like a cowboy drawing his gun at sundown, he would push my skirt and underpants down and we would collapse onto the bed. And as he moved around inside me I would watch the woman leaning against the door with her arms crossed. She would be smiling, satisfied that everything was going to plan. Then when he finished he would stand and without dressing, and with the smell of me still on him, he would embrace her. Her soft, long, smooth hair would fall over his shoulders and they would cry against each other, their chests heaving in unison. Then they would walk away. Closing the door behind them, they would leave me alone in the pink room where I would lie naked in the bed beneath the perfect sheets. And this would change everything.
If when her lips parted they revealed a battle where incisors and molars fought for space, I’d have said yes. And she’d have handed me a piece of paper on which two simple typed sentences would reveal the secrets of the world – instructions on how to become gigantic and heroic. She would teach me how to stomp across countries and watch people run from flattened villages, oozing in rivers like the insides of squashed beetles. And she would say, this is what it is to be gigantic. She would brush against me as lightly as a breeze, and I would catch glimpses of our future together. We would march in armies and rescue people from burning buildings. Gaunt mothers would clutch at the cracked, charred skin of their children and reach bony hands out to thank us, but we would disappear like shadows in the night. She would tell me, to be heroic is to remind people to breathe. And this would change all things.
But her hair was not soft nor long nor smooth, her hips swam in pants that sat loosely at her waist and her teeth lay peacefully in perfect lines. So I said no and sorry as if I was to blame for it all, and she shrugged her small shoulders and acted like it didn’t even matter.
# # # # #
VH: Someone in a café tapped me on the shoulder and asked if my name was Sophie. I couldn’t help but wonder what would’ve happened next if I’d said yes.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Victoria Hannan is an Australian who lives in Manchester, UK. She works as an advertising copywriter and recently came runner-up in the McSweeney’s Fitzgerald contest.
First published in 3:AM Magazine: Thursday, August 16th, 2007.
