Page 10 of Only One Tour Bus

CHAPTER 5

ASHA

“Calm down, it’s a small museum. Maybe we shouldn’t be too surprised we keep running into each other.”

I am most certainly not following him. Not that I wouldn’t put it past my subconscious. As long as Callum doesn’t open his mouth, or in the alternative, when he talks so fast and uses so much Irish slang I can’t understand him, I can’t complain about the Callum experience.

It’s because of that chest. I want to lie down on it for hours. I want to write soppy poetry to it, and I’m not a creative person. So I could maybe see my subconscious directing me to where he is.

How that bitch found out his location is a more impressive feat. And maybe more worrying, if my subconscious is a secret James Bond.

He rolls his eyes at me.

“I’m not going to leave this public museum, which is class.” I wait for him to appreciate how well I’ve adapted to the slang in this region, maybe give me an award in thanks for how well, but he doesn’t. Or even a thanks in thanks. I’d settle for a nod in thanks. “Anyway, let’s make the best of it. We can enjoy a museum together.”

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather just pop down to the gift shop?”

“Yes, I will be doing that. And I won’t feel the shame about it that your tone suggests that I should, either. Because I am too old to feel shame for things I love. Especially when it harms no one and in fact helps because the museum makes money off my purchases.” I nod decisively.

“Let’s go, then. If you’re determined to come with me.”

“I want us to go together,” I say, more because it’s fun to annoy Callum than any real desire to be right.

“But I’m not working; I’m not gonna give you a tour.”

“I think, somehow, someway, I will survive.”

We walk next to each other, this time on purpose, and I have to work overtime to make sure there’s no accidental, lingering touches happening. Because my hand keeps drifting toward him when I don’t watch her like a hawk.

And because I’m not great with silences, I start talking. “It is a requirement to know European history in this job. In addition to that little degree business, I know all the lyrics to ABBA’s ‘Waterloo.’” I start singing it so he knows I’m not a liar.

“Stop. Please.” The please is an afterthought, like he’s not used to politeness but he’s willing to go to extremes if it gets me to stop singing.

“But how will I prove to you I know my history?” I ask innocently, knowing my singing is truly terrible.

“I believe you.”

“Hmm…sounds disbelieving for someone who says he believes me.”

“What?”

“Anyway, let’s look at some Jacobites.”

“Are you skipping in this museum?”

There may be a slight bounce to my step. It’s not my fault; I love museums. And having company in museums. But I don’t think it could be classified as a legitimate skip. Maybe a skip-lite. A pre-skip.

That’s never turning into a skip now that he mentioned it.

“No. But I am very excited to see James the fourth-slash-the-first. He gets all the man-lusting people aflutter with his pointy beard and his puffy shorts. Don’t get me started on his tights.”

Callum considers whether any of that is true, and decides that it’s not worth further debate, either way. I, however, am enjoying his discomfort toward my more random thoughts. So I’m going to keep verbalizing them to get these reactions.

We walk through the galleries on this level, making occasional conversation about the paintings on the wall. He’s clearly impressed that I can have a basic conversation about art, and it would make me madder, but I kind of enjoy proving him wrong. He gets so irritated every time I do something that contradicts his preconceptions of me. And that brings me joy.

His irritation isn’t verbal, but I can still see it in the tightening around his mouth, the way he’s grinding his teeth in frustration. The way he has to stop himself from telling me again he’s surprised that I know things about stuff and stuff about things.

For me, a tour is a marathon, not a sprint, and if I spent all my time getting annoyed at every little thing, I wouldn’t be able to make it through one tour without quitting in a rage. Or developing heart issues. Especially not the long one we’re on.