Part 1 of 2: Small, baby steps by Zachary Pryor

ZACHARY PRYOR - 24 NOV 2021

PHOTO: PEXELS - INGA SELIVERSTOVA

Small, baby steps

Companion piece to ‘Rain Shower’ by Kerry Jewell

The food from the vegan restaurant down the road comes in little plastic containers. Heirloom tomatoes. Truffled mushrooms. Some sort of gnocchi thing I know Penny will like. She often tells me she thought she was born in the wrong country, and how in another life she’s scaling the clifftops at Positano and eating spaghetti for dinner without worrying about what it will do to her tiny waist. I’ll take her there one day.

My married friends from work arrive first. Jules swans into my apartment with a sweeping aura, taking it all in and presenting vodka and flowers as gifts. Her slick ponytail makes her look like an elegant bird. Mike follows behind like an obedient dog.

Lovely space, Rhys, she purrs and takes a seat on the couch. 

The bathroom is new — dark grey tiles, charcoal grout, stone basins, multi-functional showerheads. The bedrooms have a fresh coat of paint, slipper satin, according to the tin. Only the kitchen to go. The clunky white oven sticks out from under the bench like an odd pocket on a shirt. 

While pouring them wine I point out the features I’m most proud of—bookshelf my father made from driftwood; hand towels Penny and I picked out together. Well, I picked, she was there. This dinner was her idea, though. I thought this time she might have arrived early, wanting to help me set up the place for our guests. You know, how couples host things together and flaunt their space? But being early overwhelms her, any kind of major commitment overwhelms her. Our relationship exists in small, baby steps. 

And, where is the missus? Mike asks as I hand him a glass of shiraz.

She’s running late, I reply. Her latest messaged stressed indecision around what to wear. 

We can’t wait to meet this girl who seems to have swept you off your feet. What has it been? Six months, seven? Jules reclines on the couch. Her lilac suit crinkles like crushed moth wings.

I’ve been apprehensive to introduce Penny to my friends or family. After the whole Olivia-cheating-on-me-with-her-coworker-and-ripping-my-heart-in-two saga, I swore off dating for three years. It was my mother’s nagging voice that wore me down — you’re approaching thirty, you’ve just bought an apartment in Richmond, so settle down with someone, anyone, and yes, grandchildren would be nice. 

That pressure, coupled with my receding hairline, the paunch from too many beers with the boys, and the photos I saw of Olivia now engaged to said co-worker, made me relent, download Tinder and swipe left until I saw someone nice. 

My first dates with Penny were magical moments caught on rooftops across Melbourne, bathed in gold. Conversations over cocktails until the early hours of the morning. Weekends spent down at my parent’s holiday house in Portsea. Begrudgingly joining her 6am spin classes, #fitspo. Our relationship insular, protected, controlled. Highlights of our time together documented with the right filter on Instagram, #couplegoals. I’d grown accustomed to showing her off — golden skin, luscious lips, compact body. All mine. Take that, Olivia. 

I unscrew another bottle of shiraz. There’s a trill through the apartment. Penny waits to be buzzed in. She declined an offer for her own swipe card and key. 

I peck her cheek once she glides past the front door. Her honey and clove scent makes me tingle. The silky olive-green dress shows off the angular planes of her shoulders. 

Jules and Mike introduce themselves. Her eyes glaze over as Mike talks about a multi-million-dollar deal for a bank. It’s Jules who breaks out of the shoptalk and declares that we need more booze before food. She says this with rapacious glee, grinning and stroking my arm and I can’t work out whether she wants to fuck me or she’s just being friendly. 

Penny holds the thimble of vodka tentatively. She doesn’t even like vodka but takes it anyway. This delicate movement is like a bud unfurling. A perfect little moment.  

Over dinner, Mike regales us with challenges facing corporate real estate. Jules giggles because chatter about money excites her — who has it, how you can get more, when you should invest and where. They’ve just closed a deal on their third investment property, a new building in Prahran. This brick and tile unit my parents helped me get into pales by comparison. 

Penny has a bewildered look on her face. Her glass of wine half-drunk, squashed halves of tomatoes uneaten on her plate. She excuses herself.

Is she alright? Mike asks after a polite fifteen minutes has passed. 

Maybe reapplying her makeup? Jules replies snidely. 

Don’t be mean, J, says Mike.

She’s cute, in a deer-in-headlights kind of way, Jules replies and tops up her wine.

I think she’s wonderful. I love her and want to ask her to move in. But… I trail off, my grip tightens over my fork. My voice drops to a whisper: She’s not Olivia.

Mike shakes his head. Forget her, man. So, in the past.

Every time we fuck, I say quietly, I picture Olivia. This isn’t healthy.

And what’s healthy? I often picture Jake Gyllenhaal when we’re fucking. Jules interjects, laughs, and takes her husband’s hand. But maybe I should check on her? Girl talk, you know.

Inside the bathroom, the shower turns on. The gentle cascade of water hits the tiles. I look at my guests, eyebrows raised, as if to say — what the hell? Jules leaves the table without a word. Knocks on the bathroom door. A muffled response follows, and Jules returns to the table, troubled.

I go in and close the door behind me. Penny stands in the shower, water pelts around her, mascara dribbles down her face. Her dress lies in a sad clump on the tiles.

What’s going on? I hiss. This is embarrassing.

I’m so over everything, she says through the rain. 

I glare at Penny, my heart splits into pieces as I say, But we were having such a nice evening?

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