Clap

he clapped and the whole world stopped.
he clapped and the girl at the checkout till stared at him and said, "what the hell are you doing?" but she didn't really say it because it was in her head.

last week, she'd smiled at a different boy but it turned out that he was not so different after all. she had been disappointed.
she'd decided to become different like she wanted, but it wasn't turning out so well. she liked her clothes and makeup and shoes and hair and music, so it seemed she could do nothing about anything.

it didn't even cross her mind that this boy could be different when stepped up to the till. he was buying shaving foam, a box of brand cornflakes and a toothbrush, for god's sake. what could be more indifferent than that?

"it's a metaphor," he said.

"look, I don't care if it's left or right or up or down, you can stop clapping now." exasperated was the word. confused at the phrases pulling themselves out of her mouth, too; they were words also.

"he smiled," he said.

"what?"

there were exactly sixteen people stopping and staring at her. if she'd been capable enough to look around, she'd have seen that and called for security to drag away the crazy boy standing before her.

"he smiled at the girl before him. and he wondered why she was so confused," he said. "it was simple."

this time he really did smile.
it knocked her off her feet a little. why was he smiling? but, still. this boy was not beautiful. not at all.

"hello," he said. "I fell asleep this morning and I decided to shred the curtains, and, furthermore, I decided that I would share the secrets with somebody who needs it. you need it.”

"what?"

he took the girl's hand. he took her hand and he still smiled. he somehow seemed to know that she was afraid of everything as he smiled and took her hand and led her straight out of the supermarket.

"standing ovations are the best kind," he said. as though it was some kind of explanation.

she protested. she was being kidnapped. she sat down on his chair in his home and asked, "what the fuck do you think you're doing?"

his home was not a house. but without a doubt, she knew his house was a home.
he sat two metres away from her, only he thought that the metric system was unromantic, so he would have said six feet, six inches instead.

at that moment, the girl was not tied down in any way. for the rest of her life, she would never be tied down again. she was not a balloon, you see. she was not.

she was free to leave.
she didn't.

he sat with his legs closed, his hands gripping the chair, his arms turned outwards downwards forwards. he told her the secrets. some of them were dreadful. like the time he had stolen his mother's money to replace his father's motorcycle engine, and they had been evicted because they couldn't pay up; no matter how much lemonade he tried to sell, it would always rain. some of them were wonderful. like the time he had not had a past at all, but only a knowledge of good and oxygen in the world, and when he thought hospitals were for getting better, and motorcycles did not kill or cause accidents or evict families.

she realised she had been so wrong about beauty.

the worst secrets were the clichés. there were none.
he said that this was the first cliché in his life. she asked what he meant. he said he would enjoy this cliché, even if other people would be bored by the ending to his story, so it was okay. it was for him, after all. it was only for him, and his shredded curtains. she learnt then and there to accept him. he learnt there and then to accept himself.

well, that was the first day.



and when they are sad or happy or crowded or unloved or beautiful or ugly they do not hold hands or kiss or have sex or look each other in the eye and whisper sweet nothings.
they clap and that... that is a metaphor.