Slug Boy
Image by Tatiana Tochilova via Unsplash
Written by Robin Ellison
I would definitely call myself a fool for agreeing to meet him again after so long. I am such an idiot – I can hear my mother’s voice telling me to turn back and that I will regret taking another step forward but, like a rebellious child, I do.
I take a step, then another step, and another. Upon my cheek I feel a droplet of water. At first, I mistake the dampness for tears but it is far too cold to have come from my eyes that have always felt as though they were burning. Another drop falls and another, on my cheeks, my hair, all around me. Across the street a woman opens up an umbrella in a displeased manner. It’s raining. How very fitting for the occasion; slugs do love the rain.
I have forgotten my umbrella, of course, once again proving myself to be a fool. I wonder if he thinks I am a fool too. Maybe that’s why he wants to meet again; he perceives me to be the only girl stupid enough to give him a chance to squirm his way back into my life. He wants to contaminate everything with his slime and eat away at me like a slug in a garden of strawberries. Perhaps scattering slug pellets at my feet and putting salt in my perfume will keep him at bay.
Hopping and skipping as fast as I can, I try to avoid the falling droplets and the growing puddles that splash my poorly chosen suede shoes. Even my toes can’t escape my bad decisions. Once or twice my ankles threaten to not take me and allow my legs to snap like two spindly twigs, but I regain my balance when I arrive at the shelter of a café awning that is swollen and dipping in places from its noble efforts to hold back the rain and preserve a patch of waterless ground. I take this chance to wring out my hair that I had taken such care to style earlier that morning. It hangs in drowned tendrils at my shoulders and tints the wool of my jumper a darker shade of green to match the marks left by the raindrops I did not manage to evade. My mascara is clotting on my cheeks, none of it is left on my lashes; I should’ve worn waterproof. My lipstick feels still firm on my lips, thick and spread into the cracks from where I habitually chew at the skin. I started that when I met him, and my lips started to dry out. I had stopped using lip balm because his kisses left me with a disliking to moisture.
I don’t entertain the idea of reapplying anything, I don’t have time to give. He is already waiting inside for me. A trail of slime which an old man almost slips on when exiting the café tells me so. I catch the door for him and his arm, too, just in time for him to not break his hip. How fragile he looks. I wonder if he was the world’s strongest man in his youth. I have come to understand that I am a terrible judge of character and I should always think the opposite of someone than what I initially assume. My grandmother taught me this as a little girl when she realised what an odd duck my grandfather was. She realised this too late when the president of the Cannibals Anonymous Society attended grandpa’s funeral.
I follow the trail of slime as it winds and travels along the café floor to the source, sitting at a seat in a dim corner. His back is to me but I can tell he knows I have arrived. Avoiding the gunk better than I avoided the puddles, I come to join him. Sitting in the seat opposite him, looking away from him is unavoidable. Another piece of advice my grandmother gave me was that it was rude to stare at those I found ugly. Hideous though, that was okay. It’s rather perplexing that at one point I thought this boy to be the most striking I had ever laid my eyes on. I realise now that he is just a slug. An oozing, bulky, stomach-turning creature that it repulses me to know I ever allowed myself to touch with my bare fingers.
Does the waitress see him this way? I can’t tell. She smiles at him as she takes our order but I can’t tell if it's charmed or just polite. When our drinks arrive though, I see a piece of paper wedged under his coffee cup. She doesn’t see a slug. I know what he sees though, a fresh patch of strawberries. His eyes follow her, probably noticing the innocence in her smile. He isn’t noticing me though, as I lift the salt shaker and tap a healthy dose into his coffee.
Edited by Nico Horton