Nathaniel

Nathaniel, do you know who you are? I thought I knew, but now I’m not so sure. An invisible childhood friend, a rapist, a period of loneliness, a loving boyfriend. A one-night stand? Are you also Nathaniel? I don’t understand why I can’t find a name to fit for him. I found names for everyone else; for Ross, Audrey, Adam and Claire. But not for him: the boy who looks like Elvis. Nostrils like teardrops and transparent eyes like the sea in Malta. Who talked too much and wore golden boxing gloves around his neck. Who smelled like the upholstery of a bar stool and bought me too many drinks. Who asked if what he was doing was nice and never phoned me. Who didn’t realise that I wasn’t shaking because I was cold. Who didn’t realise that ‘yes’ meant ‘no’, or that my first teardrop was for guilt. I left him in such a hurry that night.