#6 london diaries pt. 1

On chafing and other bits of discomfort

Anouska on Jonny’s patio.

I. Dresses

Alice is done with university and back in London. We’re walking home from the ponds when she spots a woman in a floral dress. It’s baby blue and cotton, and wraps around the woman’s body, thinly tugging at her waist and revealing the space between her breasts.

Alice says that even though she likes who she is now, sometimes she wishes she could wear dresses like that. I ask her why she doesn’t, she could totally pull off a dress like that. She tells me that it’s different when you’re queer, she doesn’t want to disobey herself.

I tell her, “right,” and we walk together until we get to the park. I give her two kisses on the cheek and tell her that I love her. Which I really do.

II. Vomit

Eddy and I get into another debate about gender on the porch. He says that when we fought in that parking lot in Palm Springs, he felt like I was trying to “cancel” him, like I wouldn’t invite a discussion. 

He thinks this because I said, “I just don’t care about your opinion.”

Which was accurate, because I didn’t.

He leaves and I throw up. 

III. Smarties

I open the door to Jonny’s flat and run into that man I saw at Christmas. He’s standing outside, waiting. I get to the market across the road and turn back, to see if the man is watching me.

He is.

I ask the woman at the register where the smarties are, laughing that after 15 years I still can’t find them. A woman buying cheddar cheese and a family-size pint of nonfat yogurt, laughs.

She walks out, and I follow her. And she goes to meet that man. 

And he looks at me, still.

IV. Renewal

A writer I love is getting married over the weekend in London. They host a potluck and walk down the aisle to their friends singing Taylor Swift. People bring samosas and macaroons and so many bottles of wine.

I text them and say their wedding renews my faith in weddings. 

V. Flowers 

Mollie and I are walking to the tube station with our arms linked together when she tells me all she wants is flowers. From a lover, but really just from life itself. 

She just wants more flowers.

VI. Sex

I go see a play about a serial killer and afterwards I stand in a circle of actors rolling cigarettes. An actor I respect, who is wise, asks the star of the show what he thought of his co-star. Because to her, his co-star was really not in her character, she was in her body. It felt like, it was all about her body. It felt like -

“Sex,” I say, interrupting her.

 “Yes,” the actor says, nodding. That’s what it was. The actress was giving sex.

Henry and Charlotte climb the Heath.

VII. Chafing

I miss my stop on the way home and get out at Camden. It’s past 11, and the station feels like the worst hours of a house party. When the host wants you to leave and some girl is crying about losing her phone.

I leave the station with a group of girlfriends. They wear identical tans and short black lace dresses that look more like nightgowns. I stare at one of the girl’s legs as she walks ahead of me.

I wonder if I would feel different, if I had a legs that thin.

Once I’m out of the station, I notice a pain between my thighs. A rough burn, like something hot has come between my legs and set my skin aflame. Chafing. 

By the time I cross the High Street, I’m walking with my legs far apart, like a woman after her water breaks. Hoping that my thighs won’t touch. But still, they burn.

I take my phone and call an Uber, justifying the 7 pounds home as I only had one drink at the theatre. Well two, but the second was paid for by somebody else. I stand on the corner, waiting for my Uber (6 minutes away). And then, I hear him.

“Excuse me miss.” A man. There, in front of the Masala Zone we used to go to. Bald, but well dressed. His eyes on me. Desperate, like he hasn’t been home in days.

“Excuse me,” he says again. I pause, wondering if he needs directions. But then, he comes a step too close, and suddenly I feel my heart, moving all the way up my throat.

“I’m sorry, I have to go,” I say. I look up and down the crowded road, walking back towards where I started.

“What’s the matter? Please miss!” His eyes are big now. “I didn’t mean to scare you!”

I turn then, up the road. Waddling. Legs apart. The further I walk, the more my legs burn. And still, I feel him. Right behind me. I’m not walking fast enough. It hurts too much. 

“Why are you running away from me? I need to speak to you.”

“I really, I have to go. “ I turn in the opposite direction.

“Why are you so nervous?” he asks. “I’m not trying to - “

“I’m sorry, I’m very anxious.”

“I am too,” he says to my back. There’s a crowd by the cinema. Maybe he won’t come.

He does.

“I’m sorry,” I say again, walking across the street towards the Italian deli.

“I just need to ask you,” he calls out again, crossing the road behind me. “Are you going to the after party?” 

I see then, a woman with her headphones on. Big headphones, and a tote bag, clung strict and tight against her side. I feel my thighs grind up against one another as I make three steps towards her. 

“Can you pretend to know me?” I ask. 

She sees the man, watching us.  “Let’s go,” she says.

We walk up the street together then. Side by side. My thighs, still burning. Her headphones, resting on her shoulders. I apologize to her, perhaps I overreacted.

 “I just think with everything going on,” I propose. “I’m a bit on edge.” 

“Yes,” she says, “as you should be.”

When I get home, I put the key lock on, and take a shower. I bring the shower head down, letting the lukewarm water squirt over my thighs. In the bathroom light I see how red they are. Big, swollen bits of skin. Like oversized kidney beans, taking over my legs. Dry, and prickly, still inflamed. 

I google “how to stop chafing” and click on the first link. With the right lotions, it might stop swelling. I take a heap of facial lotion and smooth it over my legs. Cooling it, slowly. 

At the bottom of the article, there’s a list of reasons why we chafe. 

Are you wearing synthetics? No.

Are you walking with wet legs, after swimming? No.

Do you have excess fat in the area of chafing? 

I turn the lights off and get in bed. My thighs facing upwards and out to the sky. 

In the morning, my phone buzzes. I missed my ride. 15 pound surcharge. Delayed 20 minutes due to high demand. 

Why hadn’t I waited on that corner? 20 more minutes? Like I was supposed to?

They are sorry I missed my ride. Money was taken out.

I check my bank account from bed. Maybe this time I’ll protest it.

Dinner at Jonny’s.

VIII. Excuses

An old coworker calls me and tells me we’re all probably neurodivergent. He says I can use this fact to get out of doing things I don’t want to do. “You and I feel it all,” he says. “But this call can be your excuse to quit.”

IX. Lists

I lay in Jonny’s bed and make a list of all the people I’m not currently speaking to. 

X. Croissants 

The pharmacy is out of hair bands so I end up with a black scrunchie that pulls my hair taller, and bigger. I’m wearing it and Florence is singing into my ears and I am walking with her, my hands dancing like an orchestral conductor.

I need my golden crown of sorrow, my bloody sword to sing - 

“Excuse me.”

A girl calls out to me from the edge of her family garden. 

“Yes?” I say, taking my headphones out.

“You look very beautiful today,” she tells me.

I think for a second how surprising it is she said that, because I am deciding to be on vacation and had a croissant for breakfast. 

But I thought I didn’t think like that anymore.

I decide not to think like that, anymore.

I thank the little girl.