Glasgow Student Short Story Prize 2009

Judged by A.L. Kennedy
Edited by Elisabeth Ingram, Rebecca CF Bradburd and Jose Velazquez

Pobrecita

This is how it was: three people standing around a rickety breakfast bar, White Russians and the stereo too loud, another one of Connor’s stories.

    So there’s this girl, and she’s half milk-eyed, and I’m trying to get around to the other side of her so that

    Connor grips his glass as he talks, stopping it from sliding off the listing bar.

    I can only see the normal eye. And she’s making these drinks for us, tequila and absinthe, stuff that needs

    Kate keeps pulling down her dress to cover her thighs, then back up again to cover her breasts.

    props: sugar and spoons and slices of lime. So I figure, when in Panama, and down goes the

    Scott is watching Kate in his peripheral. Connor is trying to watch himself in the reflection of his glass.

    drink, and then another five. And this milk-eyed girl, she’s

Kate finishes her drink and walks over to the fridge to make another, even though the other two glasses are half-full.

    gabbling in Spanish or something, and then she gets on her knees in front of me, and she says Pobrecita, she says her name is

    Scott smiles vaguely in Connor’s direction and follows Kate. Connor address his drink.

    Pobrecita, and so I let her suck me off and the whole time I’m thinking, is this it? Is this what people do? Will this make a good story? And I realised

    The others come back to the breakfast bar as Connor, still talking, is fiddling with the stereo.

    that this IS what people do, because everything we do is just so we can tell our friends about it later.

    Connor picks up his new drink, clinks rims.

    Kate pulls at her hair, the long fringe tangling in her eyelashes. Scott stands closer to her and addresses the bouncer.

    We’re on the…

    Name?

    Connor elbows between them, peering at the upside-down clipboard.

    Jones. I mean, James. Plus three. This is my brother and sister.

    He pulls them into a bearhug. The bouncer eyes Connor’s curly blonde, Kate’s henna red, Scott’s thinning black.

    The queue pulses forward and he waves them through.

A long blonde girl hands Connor a drink and resumes picking at her fingernails. The floor of the club is black, scuffed, wet with spilled drinks. Connor leans over, his calloused fingers on her cheekbone, removing a non-existent eyelash. He fills the space between them.

    Your eyelashes are so long. Are they real? They’re like

    He starts and finishes his drink.

    drag queen eyelashes. You must be a model. Your mouth is amazing, it makes me want to

    The long blonde flips her hair over one bony shoulder, and in the space left Connor sees Scott and Kate: her laugh, his glow at the sound.

    sing. You should definitely be a singer, your tits are fantastic. Excuse me.

    Scott goes to the bar, and Connor fills the space he left.

Later, in Connor’s bedroom, Kate stops tugging at her dress; lets Connor pull it over her head. It tangles in her hair and she struggles, fails, leaves it for Connor’s hands on her.

    The stereo is talking to her, saying

    Emptiness is loneliness and loneliness is cleanliness and

    Kate is uncovered, white flesh on black sheets, and Connor pulls off his t-shirt one-handed, an afterthought.

    God is empty just like

    Kate talks but the stereo talks louder so she’s just mouthing:

    I need to, can we, would you, I don’t want…

    Connor is murmuring to her, soft sounds like wind in trees, words she can’t hear because all she can hear is the noise of the stereo and the words she wants to say. She pushes Connor off the bed. His hand hits the stereo and the words stop. The only sound is the throb of silence.

    Is everything you do just for a story? Is this a story?

    Kate’s shoes are silent on the pavement.

    Pobrecita, she says to the rhythm of her steps. Pob-re-ci-ta, and she can hear it. There are no other words, outside or inside her head.

    Pob-re-ci-ta, like a march. The word comes faster and she skips to keep up.

    Her shoelace has come untied and she keeps her eyes down, watching the loose ends twitch with every step. She knows she will trip, but as her steps and her words speed up – Pob-re-ci-ta, Pobre-cita, Pobrecita – it’s too late to stop.