Awkward
A collection of snippets about awkward atmospheres between 2 people.
i.
We ran into each other on the train. It was not an elegant moment for him to display his feathers. Desperate to tell me his salary and master's result, he dropped his triumphs amongst unrelated topics like bombs. I felt him looking at my eyes, not into them. Just as you would look at an expensive watch behind a glass case. I tried out being like him:
‘What are you doing?’
‘Writing a book.’
It felt awkward but exciting to dress up the truth.
‘Getting out here?’
‘No, next stop.’
‘Oh me too.’
As the doors closed we shared the same thought:
‘damn!’
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ii.
‘Good to see you!’
The hug – it was like trying to embrace a dark painting hanging on a wall. So much nothing between us. We used to have the same friends but we were never friends ourselves. It was that kind of acquaintance, that specific sort of awkwardness.
‘Got to run!’
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iii.
We shook hands twice in the first hour. The first time he introduced himself as Robert, the second time as Rubin. The skin felt like it was trying to distance itself from the rest of him. A fitting touch for someone who lied about their identity on the internet.
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iV.
‘I have something on later now. Can you meet a bit earlier?’ I wrote to my Tinder date.
‘I have an appointment until 5 I'm afraid. Let me know how we should proceed.’
34, economics graduate, too much time working for a tech company.
We went around different bars in Richardplatz, where he was a regular. I felt he was showing off to the bartenders that he had a date. I felt he was showing off to me by buying all the drinks.
His keen, sad, wild eyes made it easy to imagine him taking cocaine and drinking whisky, alone.
I made my excuses to go.
‘Okay let me know if you want a follow-up meeting.’
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V.
We rode the U8 back home, in a carriage that seemed far too full for January 2021, deep in the pandemic and the confines of the second lockdown. But it was Friday night. What stood out was the glimpse of the estranged feeling of being out late, and one pair in their 50s, sitting next to each other, cramped on a two-seater. Cramped because they were both relatively large. Cramped because the man spread his legs wide. Cramped because the woman tried to get away from him, by turning her shoulder and looking out the window at the dark tunnel. Avoiding the ugly sight of him touching his penis, which he stroked as if it were a pet mouse trapped in his sweaty underwear. She sucked a lollipop and he watched her. It didn’t look like they knew each other too well. He seemed to want from the night what she didn’t. But they were riding the late train together back to somewhere private, as no public place was open.