Stranger things

She’s standing too close to me. Really close. Like, together close. Did I come here with this woman and just forget? Is she actually my wife? That’s the kind of proximity we’re talking – definitely more than friends. Although even for a wife this is too close. 

The problem is she’s next to me instead of behind me. Last time I checked that was not how people queued. Her arm is touching my arm, and there’s no need – no need whatsoever. This isn’t a sardines in a tin situation. There’s plenty of space, masses of it. There’s enough space to pirouette, to swing a cat, to take a giant leap for mankind. And yet, this woman has somehow entered my inner orbit, boldly going where no stranger is welcome.

I move slightly to the left and take a step forward, which means I’m now too close to the woman in front. Of course; the instigator of this human dominoes immediately closes the gap I just tried to create between us. That’s it. I’m giving her a look. I turn towards her - I don’t have far to turn – and look at her face, making sure to smile, assuaging any notion of aggression. Chin tilted up, she looks straight ahead, apparently impassive, even though I know she can feel me looking at her, of course she can – I’m close enough to give her a hickey. Urgh. This is why I hate coming out. 

People are weird. I’m weird. There are too many hurdles, too many interactions. It’s exhausting. 

I’ve already endured a man sitting next to me on a practically empty bus before proceeding to whisper ‘Satan’ every 20 to 30 seconds like some sort of demonic metronome. After that I had to slalom my way through a maelstrom of braying students, who, despite taking up the whole width of the cobbled street, were incapable of not falling into me. Why don’t people just know the basic rules? Why can’t they just leave me alone? It’s all just too scratchy and irksome and – oh the queue’s moving, thank god. I take a big step forward. 

My wife is instantly on my shoulder, like the needy little keener she is, and now she’s craning her neck like an ostrich. She’s bouncing from one side to the other like a Jack in the box. What is she trying to see? Presumably she’s been to a bar before? Her shoulder brushes against mine. This. Is. Just. Do I really want a lime and soda this badly? There are only two people in front of me, but this wild menace of a woman is –

“You can go to anyone – you can just go forward – there are, like, four people serving at the bar”

– speaking to me, apparently. Committing the worst of all public offences: direct, unsolicited talking. At least Satan guy was just whispering to himself – I think.

“Sorry, what?”

“You can go to any of the servers - they’re just serving everyone.”

Her tone is brittle, frosty. I face her. She’s mid-twenties. Not smiling. And she’s irritated. With me. 

“There are, like, four bar people”, she repeats like some kind of fembot information service. 

If I am in fact married to this woman, I don’t know what I was thinking. 

Twice now she’s used the word like, its desired effect not lost on me. “Like, what are you, some kind of idiot?”, is the vibe. The only thing missing is the ‘duh’.

I look at the queues to the left, each one leading up to the bar.

“I’m just going to wait here”, I mumble.

“No, but you can go to any barperson.”

“I know but I think those people are queuing up for those servers.”

“No, you can just go to any one.”

I exhale. What do I do to make it stop? Why am I such a magnet for the botherers, the pedants, the socially avant garde? 

“You can go there if you like”, I offer, by way of what I hope is closure.

She doesn’t move, her face eerily blank, as if she’s never even spoken to me. It doesn’t make any fucking sense. If she’s so desperate for me to push my way to the front, why won’t she do it herself?

My friend comes back from the toilet. She looks at this person standing next to me, presumably thinking “Who is this and why is she with us?” and tries to find a space to stand.

“What do you want to drink?” I ask my friend, trying to ignore the unignorable presence of the Gen Z stranger hovering in between us.

“What are you having?”

“Just lime and soda.”

“Oh I’ll have the same – I drank too much wine last night.”

“You know you can just go to any of the servers”

Oh good, it’s wifey back with her scintillating catchphrase. 

I don’t say anything; I refuse to be forced into another round of this tedious duologue.

“You can just go forward – there are four people…”

What is happening; are these the only words she knows? Is she doing some kind of Meisner exercise? 

Before she can say anything else, the queue moves – we’re at the front! I’m about to tell the barman what we want, when who should appear at my left hand side? My one and only, leaning forward, her entire torso on the bar. Is she going to climb over? 

“Can I have a –”

“Er, I’m just serving these people”, the young barman replies curtly, turning back to us.

Ha! In your face, you little queue witch.

“Two lime and sodas, please”

I allow myself a furtive glance in her direction. Our eyes meet. I give her my best faux-apologetic smug smile, one that I hope says: well, I think we’ve all learned a thing or two about how queues work, haven’t we young lady? She stares right back at me: blank, no hint of chagrin in her cool blue eyes. 

We pay, take our drinks and walk towards the auditorium.

“He put way too much lime in mine”, my friend says, screwing up her face.

I take a sip. “He barely put any in mine.”

We take our seats. The lights go down. I feel my shoulders relax into this new found safety. For the next hour and a half, at least, the satanists, drunks and queue lunatics will have to take their business elsewhere.