Advent microstories: day 7
I can’t remember a time when I didn’t think of men as ‘other’. To me, men are perpetually unknown, something always and forever not understood. I have never expected to know what makes a man tick. As a result, my expectations of men are that they will either be captivating, full of wild ideas and experts in their fields – or have absolutely nothing to offer.
When I was 18 years old, I had a crush on Sebastian Fields. For the previous couple of years I had nurtured an obsession with Oscar Wilde, so it really was no surprise that when a tall, lean young man with languorous eyes in a long, expressionless face minced across my horizon, he looked like the shiniest object this magpie had ever seen.
I had very little interest in getting to know Sebastian Fields. I much preferred my imagination. It never crossed my mind to get to know him and ask him for a drink. I knew he would either be a disappointment or more than I could cope with. I preferred what I called my ‘Sebastian lifestyle’.
I made sure I almost got in his way every time I could. I’d be outside the lecture theatre, looking glorious, when he and another 149 students came out of a sociology lecture. I’d make sure I was drinking in the same part of the student union bar as his slightly-too-clean grunge clique. I’d be in the supermarket when he did his weekly shop. It was thrilling to see him and try to piece together bits of his life, like collecting marks on an imaginary bingo card.
I’d sit in the library (when I knew he was safely elsewhere) and daydream about a romance with Imaginary Sebastian Fields. Imaginary Sebastian would suggest we’d sit under a tree and we’d throw stones in the loch, taking it in turns to read out loud from the NME. Imaginary Sebastian would ask to meet me in the bar, and I’d plan in detail what I was going to wear. I would introduce Imaginary Sebastian Fields to my friends from home and they’d be as stunned as I was at his cool demeanour, torn jeans and sultry, unimpressed stare.
There were no daydreams in which Imaginary Sebastian and I actually had conversations. He never touched me or bought me presents. He just existed, beautiful and extraordinary, in my imagination.
My love for Sebastian Fields was beautiful and pure, entirely because it was untainted by reality, and completely unrelated to any aspect of Sebastian Fields himself.
Then, one night on the way home from the Student Union, I found the Real Life Sebastian Fields falling into step beside me, looking at me through his long floppy fringe.
“Hello, I’m Sebastian”, he said.
My head said “I know”.
My heart said “Shit”.
I actually said “Hello.”
“You’re Sara, aren’t you? I think we’re in the same sociology lectures?”
And that was the end. Of course it was. Because how could he be so mistaken? I was never in that lecture theatre. I was outside it, waiting. He clearly did not pay me the same attention I paid him.
Real life Sebastian Fields and I went on two dates. I’ve forgotten the first one, but the second was an afternoon drive to a remote pub, which had to have him back in time for a 4pm lecture. As I dropped him off, he leaned over to kiss me. I was thrilled to have this mark on my bingo card – but simultaneously, I felt absolutely nothing.
There was radio silence for a few days, until one evening I returned to my room to find an envelope had been pushed under my door. My disappointment at the sight of his handwriting was much, much worse than any feelings I had about the contents of the letter. Real life Sebastian Fields wrote in small, neat block capitals in blue biro, without so much as a shred of a creative flourish. The notepaper was thin and cheap. He had also mis-spelled my name.
In the letter, Real Life Sebastian apologised for being distant and preoccupied (not something I’d noticed) but that there was no easy way to tell me what he had to say. He said he had wanted to go out with me to find out whether he was “bisexual, instead of just plain old gay”, but our time together had shown him that he had no interest in women. He said he’d drop off my Oscar Wilde t-shirt after he’d washed it.
He never did.
I had a cup of tea and a cigarette. Then I took myself off to get drunk – not because of the loss of Sebastian Fields, but because he’d taken away my daydreams.
Pretty soon after that I joined the Drama Society, and before long I found myself some pretty heavy duty daydreams.
Tea is my typewriter 