ANTidote by David Winship

Author:David Winship [Winship, David]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2016-05-06T23:00:00+00:00

THIS LOVE-STARVED HEART OF MINE

When I return from supervising the rehabilitation of my fish in the tank in my apartment, I check the decks and crack my head on the speaker unit above the console. I wince, grab my glass and find Catfish still sitting at the table, looking a little disconsolate, a towel wrapped around her neck, while Taylor and a couple of Aysha’s friends do their best to comfort her.

“So,” says Taylor, his voice full of boozy, fake solicitous concern, “Are you sure you’re okay now, sweetie?”

“I’m okay, thank you. A bit singed and a bit drenched. Wait, did you call me sweaty? I know I’m new round here but isn’t that a violation of, er, something?” Catfish has clearly taken a dislike to Taylor since the finance conference.

“I said sweaty, er, sweetie, not sweaty,” Taylor slurs, raising his glass and putting it back down again.

“Well, actually, that’s patronising, demeaning and presumptive,” snaps one of Aysha’s friends.

“Oh no, please,” says Taylor with a bitter sigh. “Don't get started on any feminist speeches! You women need to develop more of a thick skin. Listen, I faced ageism, sexism and, uh, Islamophobia, whatever, to get where I am.” I’m not sure if he’s joking, but coming from a straight white male atheist in his mid-thirties, it’s certainly a bit of an odd statement to make.

“Women just want to be treated like human beings the same as you,” Aysha’s friend points out with as much patience as she can muster.

Once again, Taylor raises his glass and puts it back down. “Yeah, there it is – a gender agenda! Well, you know what? Wanting your gender to be treated as human beings is ridicule, er, radicule politics as far as I’m concerned. It’s about replacing oppressive patriarchy with oppressive matriarchy. Yeah, it’s like… it’s like invading Poland. Hey, Vincent Churchill said that.”

Aysha’s friend clearly thinks about just bottling it up and walking away, but she can’t help saying: “Vincent Churchill?”

“It was either him or the old Manchester United boss, Vincent Van Gogh,” declares Taylor.

Anyway, I leave them to their argument and ask Aysha if she’d like to dance.

Well, that was brave. Really, I’ve absolutely no idea where it came from. I was just standing there totally transfixed by the sounds emanating from the bar: clinking glasses, loud voices, but, above all, the music. The way the upbeat melodies and surging choruses contrast with the sad, sad lyrics. It’s such an exquisite paradoxical aesthetic. And for a moment I’m just kind of right inside the music, living every word, loving the sensations the songs create in my mind. Tears threaten to fill my eyes with the sheer beauty of what I’m hearing. It’s almost like it’s not of this world. And yet it’s in the song of birds during a dawn chorus, it’s in the wind breathing through slender reeds and meadow grasses, in the chirping of crickets in the noon-time heat, the moaning of trees in entangled tumult during a tropical storm,

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