Page 2 of When We Are Old

“Well. Not like that.” She straightened up, putting her at around the height of my nipples.

“I can’t have a drink with someone when I don’t know their name.”

This wasn’t in the plan—flirting with miniature girls wasn’t in my game plan. I’d only been here a few hours and I’d fought hard to get here—too hard some would say—to get distracted within the first half an hour.

I shouldn’t. I really shouldn’t, but I wanted her to have a name that would swirl itself in my head with a felt tip marker.

“Veronica.” Strawberries were officially my favourite fruit now.

“Veronica? That’s a very grown up name you have there.”

She swallowed hard, like she wanted to puke.

“Veronica. I’m Matthew.” I held out my hand and waited for her to shake it. Her fingers trembled as she reached forward and then she slipped her hand into mine. I met her eyes and shot her a grin.

“Hi, Matthew.”

“A drink you say?”

“Sorry.” She shoved a hand though her hair but then must have remembered she had a band in because she grimaced. I watched, mesmerised, as she yanked out the band and shook out pale blonde strands. “I don’t even live here.”

I kept my face neutral. I didn’t need to point out I’d been eavesdropping like a freak.

“No?” We were still by my door and her quick gaze slipped past me and into my room.

“No. My parents live locally. So… I’m commuting.” Her rosebud lips pressed into a firm line.

“Oh? Aren’t you worried you’ll miss out? Isn’t it part of the experience to live on campus in digs and throw yourself in?”

I waited, genuinely interested in her response. Her face flickered with a frown; her lips tightening. “No, not at all; it’s better this way.” She swallowed again.

This Veronica miniature woman didn’t realise her thoughts were written all over her face. “Sure.” I shrugged.

“So are you coming for this drink?” She glanced over her shoulder again. Her back up still hadn’t arrived, and a dart of annoyance flashed across her face.

“I’m interested to know how you got to be the one who knocked on my door when you don’t live here.”

“Angela.” She waved her hand at the communal area. “I met her earlier. She invited me in, although I think I should probably be getting home.”

“But you just asked me for a drink.” I felt my lip curl belying my amusement.

She chewed her lip again. Her skin paled to the white of unripe strawberries, and she swallowed hard—again.

“Whoa, you okay?” I inched into her space, but she shrank back from my shadow.

“Ugh. Yeah.”

She turned and walked back down the hallway. Not moving, I watched as she stood at the door to the lounge. The chatter and shouts didn’t stop. She waited, hesitating, her fingers pulling at the edge of her black cardigan. Then silently she bent down and grabbed a maroon backpack off the floor and turned for the external door.

The chatter didn’t stop. I doubt they even saw her there, and she opened the door without a backwards glance.

What just happened? She was fine a minute ago. Had I upset her? Been rude? I wracked my brains running through our conversation. I hated upsetting people. Another reason why my move to university in London had been so hard.

Turning, I grabbed my shoes and pushed them on my feet as I shot a glance at my watch. I had half an hour until I had to wait in line for the payphone to ring home.

The internal door clicked shut and I raced down the hallway. Briefly, I peered into the lounge. The girls were all on the low foam chairs, and the girl who’d arrived by herself was talking loudly and using her hands to make her point.

I yanked at the door and slipped down the stairs. Evening sun lit campus, the air tepid with small insects hovering above the grass, but the long evenings were drawing in and soon it would be dark.