The Forgetful Friendly - A short story

 

The south brumy accent gave him a charm not heard often in Cornwall. Paired with a dark flannel shirt, Matthew’s tattoos peaked out and swans, roses and knives gave a glimpse to his character. His evolving, enticing character.

 

Matthew was unlike anything they’d ever met. He described phenomenology with passion and stumbled through philosophical theories with a lager tongue and wild hand gestures. An intense encounter, at least for Nancy and Frida. These Cornish adoptees had grown accustomed to their tight friend circles- not having to figure someone out as they spoke, knowing which hyperbolic phrase to say to make one another chuckle. Matthew was not an easy audience.

 

The women decided to paint his character, Frida asking questions, Nancy providing neat anecdotes. This is what they were employed to do after all; discover inner ethos. But it was difficult with a person so enigmatic. The intentions behind their statements were twisted into something quite different, so that they discovered more about themselves than this Matthew enigma. 

 

Some people have the charisma and openness to sweep you off your morals and sense. The forgetful friendly was one of these guys. 

 

His intense eyes poured wildly into Frida’s as Nancy told a story about how the writer’s met. Then he tilted his dark swept hair towards Nancy and muttered something no more than an inch from her face. Whatever Matthew had said made the freckles on Nancy’s cheeks jump back, retracting both her face and liking of the fellow.  

 

An entertaining hour went by, hoppy liquid clouding their Wordsworthian brains. Frida was warming up, all lies and smiles. But Nancy was cooling rapidly. She was mid-story, adjectives came out of her every breath. Yet interrupted as Frida darted her blonde waves away from the forgetful friendly. 

“Sorry,” came his response. Two elegant hands brought up either side of his trimmed beard. The dirty bar’s clamour was suddenly deafening as the trio fell silent. 

“I touched her leg,” Matthew exhaled into Nancy. More freckles disappeared.

“No, you put your hand up my trouser leg.” 

Nancy’s eyes flicked between the circling pair.

“I didn’t say stop, though.” Frida smirked into her lager and redirected attention to Nancy’s fine story. All lies and smiles.