Dan Purdue<\/p>\n
1. \u201cFor Want of a Nail…\u201d Bronze resin; 2003<\/em><\/p>\n At first, neither of us can work out what it\u2019s supposed to be. It\u2019s cylindrical, two meters tall by a meter across, tapering to a screw thread. It looks something like an upturned bottle, only huge and made of metal.<\/p>\n Cassie gasps. \u201cI know — it\u2019s from the lock! The, um, the little handle piece that connects to the slidy bolt thing.\u201d<\/p>\n I look at her. \u201cSlidy bolt thing?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cFrom the bathroom door.\u201d<\/p>\n I shrug.<\/p>\n She waits. Her eyes widen and she pinches her bottom lip between her teeth. She\u2019s itching to tell me. I shake my head.<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s hard to recognise because in real life it\u2019s only this big.\u201d She holds up her hand with a small gap between her finger and thumb. \u201cBut that\u2019s it, the bit that was missing. Remember? If it\u2019d been there, I could\u2019ve locked the bathroom door, and you wouldn\u2019t have\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBlundered in,\u201d I say, suddenly understanding. No wonder I didn\u2019t recognise it; I\u2019d been on the wrong side of the door. \u201cYeah, I suppose that really is how it all started. Aaron\u2019s New Year\u2019s Eve party. God, I was so embarrassed. I backed out so quickly I practically fell down the stairs.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou<\/em> were embarrassed? You weren\u2019t the one with your knickers round your ankles.\u201d<\/p>\n We smile, the way we smiled whenever anybody asked how we met. At a party, we\u2019d say, grinning helplessly. What a ridiculous start to a relationship.<\/p>\n I gaze at the sculpture, this tiny, mundane thing made significant by a trick of scale and the events its absence set in motion. I try to think of something clever to say to Cassie about our relationship beginning with a door that couldn\u2019t be locked, but I can\u2019t quite marshal my thoughts before she pulls me away.<\/p>\n 2. \u201cLove Potions\u201d Vodka, Rum, Pernod, Lemon Juice, Tizer, Unknown, Glass; 2003<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cLook, look,\u201d she says, hauling me towards the next piece. \u201cYour \u2018apology cocktails.\u2019\u201d She picks one up and sniffs it. \u201cJesus. What did you put in these? No wonder I couldn\u2019t remember getting home.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI recall Aaron\u2019s party dramatically improved after we drank them.\u201d I glance over my shoulder. \u201cI\u2019m not sure we\u2019re allowed to touch things in here. Maybe you should put that down.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cRelax,\u201d she says, in that soothing, infuriating way of hers. She smiles a demon grin and takes a sip. \u201cUrgh! It\u2019s Las Vegas in liquid form.\u201d<\/p>\n Somehow she forces the other glass into my hand. I take a hesitant sip; a riot spills into my mouth. I look at her, her lips pursed around the straw, her cobalt-blue eyes sparkling, and I remember how she was the most beautiful girl I\u2019d ever met.<\/p>\n 3. \u201cBack Row\u201d Velour, Plastic, Digital Video; 2004<\/em><\/p>\n Behind a heavy black curtain, we stumble over a dimly lit row of cinema seats. We sit down. The room is too warm and smells of popcorn and melted cheese. On a screen a couple kisses in a Hollywood rainstorm. Concealed speakers pump out an overwrought ballad, underscored with stifled coughs and rustling sweet wrappers.<\/p>\n \u201cOur first date,\u201d she says. \u201cCan you believe we were such a clich\u00e9?\u201d<\/p>\n I laugh. We didn\u2019t deliberately set out to see a schmaltzy rom-com, but it was the best of a poor selection. I can\u2019t remember the name of the film, although potentially it had Sandra Bullock in it. The film itself was largely irrelevant; the important bit had been the chance to quietly assess one another for irritating habits and hygiene issues, without the need to say anything for two hours. I had been anxious about meeting again after the party, worried the few things I could remember about Cassie would turn out to be alcohol-fuelled invention.<\/p>\n \u201cCome on,\u201d I say after a minute or two, \u201clet\u2019s get out of here.\u201d<\/p>\n As we leave I notice we\u2019re holding hands. I don\u2019t remember whether I reached for her hand or she for mine, but it feels natural, and good.<\/p>\n 4. \u201cNesting\u201d Paper, ink; 2005<\/em><\/p>\n Initially the fourth room appears empty. The floor is bare but the walls are covered with slips of paper, each tacked in place with a nail. They\u2019re receipts, and above or beside them all are little pen-and-ink sketches of the items drawn onto the walls, detailing everything we bought in that first year, things with which we filled our lives and the draughty little flat we rented. The receipts rustle gently as we move through the room. It sounds like the sea, or leaves on a tree.<\/p>\n We find the beginning and work our way around. It\u2019s like a treasure hunt – among the records of banal, everyday transactions like groceries and taxi fares are more telling glimpses of our relationship. We reach our first Valentine\u2019s Day, and I recall the decidedly unromantic discussion we\u2019d had about whether we were \u201cdoing\u201d Valentine\u2019s or not and how much we would spend. We\u2019d only reached our fourth or fifth date and were cautious of making too grand a gesture. I bought her a book of poetry; she got me a CD. Nice, safe, dull presents.<\/p>\n \u201cWe got a bit more daring as we went, though, didn\u2019t we?\u201d Cassie says, seemingly reading my thoughts. She\u2019s found the receipt for the vibrator I bought for her birthday. A blush ignites across my face. It had been the most mortifying purchase of my life. I could never have faced going into a shop and buying one \u2013 thank god for the internet \u2013 but still I spent the best part of a week breaking into cold sweats at the prospect of them trying to deliver the thing while I was out and having to collect it from the sorting office.<\/p>\n It was well worth it, though. I can\u2019t help smiling to myself.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat are you thinking about?\u201d Cassie asks, raising an eyebrow.<\/p>\n \u201cNothing.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYeah, right.\u201d She play-punches my arm. \u201cYou and your one-track mind.\u201d<\/p>\n We move on. Occasionally one of us points something out with a, \u201cHey, do you remember that?\u201d or a, \u201cI forgot we\u2019d had one of those.\u201d Basking in nostalgia, we shuffle along with our arms wrapped around one another.<\/p>\n Just as we\u2019re leaving I notice the receipt from the bottle of R\u00e9my Martin I gave her for Christmas that year. I don\u2019t think Cassie spots it but for some reason I can\u2019t think of anything other than how annoyed I\u2019d been when I found it had all gone by New Year\u2019s Eve.<\/p>\n 5. \u201cLook, Look, Look\u201d Perspex; 2006<\/em><\/p>\n For the next piece, we\u2019re directed to stand on opposing sides of a huge Perspex lens. The device magnifies our faces, like we\u2019re watching each other through binoculars. I\u2019m uncomfortable looking at this giant version of Cassie, it feels too much like an intrusion, but I can\u2019t help gazing at her beautiful eyes, the perfect domes of her cheekbones. Even the way a little of her hair falling across her face looks as though it\u2019s following some elegant law of aesthetics.<\/p>\n \u201cHello, Gorgeous,\u201d I say. She rewards me with a coquettish smile, a meter wide.<\/p>\n We pull faces and laugh. As time passes I begin to notice things I\u2019d rather not. Before long all I can focus on are her flaws and blemishes. There\u2019s a clot of mascara at the corner of one eye. She has blackheads on her chin. One of her teeth is chipped and she shows too much of her gums when she smiles. A sense of unease takes hold. I should be able to overlook these things, I tell myself. But I can\u2019t, and I end up trying not to look at the lens, while simultaneously trying not to look like I\u2019m not looking.<\/p>\n \u201cThis is weird,\u201d she says.<\/p>\n \u201cYeah,\u201d I reply. \u201cI\u2019m not sure I like it. Shall we go?\u201d<\/p>\n She looks offended. Immediately I realize I\u2019ve said the wrong thing. \u201cSorry,\u201d I say, sheepishly. \u201cI didn\u2019t mean it like that. We can stay if you want.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo. It\u2019s fine.\u201d<\/p>\n In an instant, she\u2019s gone from the lens and I hear the door to the next room swing open.<\/p>\n I follow her, my hands thrust into my pockets.<\/p>\n 6. \u201cHe Said \/ She Said\u201d Gramophones, Acrylic Paint, Digital Tape; 2006<\/em><\/p>\n I catch her up in a long, high-ceilinged room. An old-fashioned gramophone is painted pink and installed in one corner. A blue one is positioned diagonally opposite, facing it. The gramophones produce sound one after the other, mimicking a conversation. The noises are our voices \u2013 that much is obvious \u2013 but the words are distorted and unintelligible, no matter where we stand. We crane our necks and frown as we try to interpret the noises flung back and forth between the two sets.<\/p>\n Initially the gramophones \u201cspeak\u201d in turn, but they soon begin to overlap. The tone changes. There\u2019s a shift towards aggression as the exchange becomes an argument, each voice trying to drown out the other. Eventually, it disintegrates into a kind of white noise. The speakers can barely cope. It\u2019s so loud and ragged it\u2019s painful to listen to. It\u2019s a relief when, after a near-hysterical shriek from one (or possibly both) of the gramophones, the room falls silent.<\/p>\n Cassie is impatient. \u201cOkay, I get the point. Come on,\u201d she says, although she doesn\u2019t really direct it at me. Her impulsiveness is infuriating. I want us to stay. There must be a clue to what went wrong, somewhere in that muddled blizzard of sound. I want the recordings to begin again. I\u2019d really pay attention this time. Perhaps I could pinpoint the exact moment we stopped talking, or stopped listening, or whatever it was.<\/p>\n At the very least, I imagine that if I wait long enough the blue gramophone will say something conciliatory, admit defeat, try to smooth things over. That was usually how it worked.<\/p>\n I stand listening to the ringing in my ears until I realize I\u2019m alone.<\/p>\n 7. \u201cFound Items\u201d Found Items; 2007<\/em><\/p>\n Cassie stands at a glass cabinet. Inside are two foil pouches, their ring-shaped contents obvious even without the kitemarks and the Durex logo. My heart sinks.<\/p>\n When she turns to look at me her eyes are wet. \u201cI still don\u2019t understand why you took them with you.\u201d<\/p>\n I sigh. We\u2019ve been through this a thousand times. \u201cI didn\u2019t take them with me. Not deliberately, anyway. I just grabbed my wash-bag and they must have been in there \u2013 from before we, well, before you went on the Pill. I honestly didn\u2019t know I still had them.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHow could you not notice them?\u201d She points at the condoms. \u201cThe packets are bright red.\u201d<\/p>\n I can\u2019t think of a useful reply, so I just nod. I\u2019m telling the truth, more or less. I didn\u2019t intend to sleep with anybody at the conference. With things the way they were with Cassie, I had been weighing up the possibility of starting afresh with somebody else. But that\u2019s as far as I\u2019d got. I certainly hadn\u2019t set off for Barcelona with the goal of cheating on her. And despite the exotic surroundings and the open bar, not to mention a willingness for my fidelity to be tested, the opportunity hadn\u2019t arisen. I still don\u2019t know whether to be grateful or disappointed.<\/p>\n \u201cWhy were you going through my things, anyway?\u201d I say, sounding like a petulant teenager.<\/p>\n \u201cI wasn\u2019t \u2018going through\u2019 them,\u201d she snaps, \u201cI was tidying up after you! If you want to keep secrets you should learn to put things away.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSecrets?\u201d I say, throwing my hands up. I\u2019m about to roll out my well-worn protestations of innocence, point out the packets are unopened, unused, probably well past their use-by date, but I don\u2019t have the energy. It all seems so futile.<\/p>\n Instead I say, \u201cWhen exactly did you stop trusting me?\u201d<\/p>\n She looks surprised at the question. She pushes a strand of hair behind her ear. \u201cI don\u2019t know. Do you really just stop, like flicking a switch? Sometimes I think I trusted you the whole time. It was difficult to find a reason not to. But I kept looking. Maybe that was the problem.\u201d<\/p>\n I shrug. We\u2019re subdued, lost in thought. The air feels empty, wrung-out.<\/p>\n I gesture towards the display. \u201cIt\u2019s not like we broke up because of this,\u201d I say. I\u2019m not sure what difference it\u2019s supposed to make.<\/p>\n \u201cNo,\u201d she says, \u201cbut it\u2019s this that made me realize we were breaking up.\u201d<\/p>\n 8. \u201cLove Sublime\u201d Carbon Dioxide; 2006<\/em><\/p>\n The last room is draped in black velvet, walls and floor, and on four pedestals stand the letters L, O, V, and E, formed from blocks of dry ice. At room temperature, carbon dioxide becomes a vapor, and the letters are slowly dissolving into a white mist.<\/p>\n We stand together and watch for a while, following the vapor as it drifts away from the surfaces of the letters and trickles down the folds in the cloth. The floor is already ankle-deep in vapor; the blocks shrink imperceptibly with every passing moment. The mood between us has changed; the anger and bitterness have burnt themselves out. In their place are a quiet sense of loss and the first, fledgling stirrings of regret at a path not taken.<\/p>\n \u201cIt really is beautiful,\u201d Cassie says wistfully.<\/p>\n \u201cSorry?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cLove. For all its shortcomings, it\u2019s still beautiful, when you think about it. I suppose that\u2019s what the title\u2019s referring to.\u201d<\/p>\n I curl my lip. \u201cSublime doesn\u2019t just mean that. In chemistry it describes something solid evaporating into thin air. There\u2019s only so much you can do to prevent it, if what you start with isn\u2019t stable enough in the first place.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou always did over-analyze everything.\u201d She smiles, a sad, tired kind of smile. \u201cMaybe that\u2019s enough for today. What do you reckon?\u201d<\/p>\n I look around the room. She\u2019s right. We\u2019ve reached the end of our shared past, and although I don\u2019t want to leave, there\u2019s nothing to be gained from loitering here. \u201cOkay,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n We walk out together, close but not too close, into the sunlight.<\/p>\n Outside, we stand on the steps and say goodbye.<\/p>\n Cassie tilts her head to one side and gives me a look worryingly close to pity.<\/p>\n \u201cAre you going to be alright?\u201d she says.<\/p>\n I start to answer but my throat tightens up. I nod instead.<\/p>\n She hugs me and I find it hard to let go, but she gently pushes me away. She looks behind me, at the gallery.<\/p>\n \u201cYou shouldn\u2019t keep going over and over this,\u201d she says. She holds my hand and strokes my forearm with her free hand.<\/p>\n \u201cI know,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n Then she turns and I watch her walk down the steps, her hair shining in the sun. I wait until she has disappeared around the corner before I sit down on the steps. After a while I get back up and walk towards the gallery entrance, to where I know I\u2019ll find her, by the first exhibit, waiting for me.<\/p>\n \u201cUs: A Retrospective\u201d previously appeared in print in the anthology, The Graft<\/em>.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n DAN PURDUE<\/strong> lives and writes in the West Midlands in the UK. His short stories have been published in numerous places online and in print, including Writers\u2019 Forum<\/em>, Defenestration<\/em>, The View From Here,<\/em> and The Waterhouse Review<\/em>, and have won prizes in various competitions, most recently the 2012 Se\u00e1n \u00d3 Faol\u00e1in Short Story Competition. His blog goes a little like this: http:\/\/Lies-Ink.blogspot.com<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Dan Purdue 1. \u201cFor Want of a Nail…\u201d Bronze resin; 2003 At first, neither of us can work out what it\u2019s supposed to be. It\u2019s cylindrical, two meters tall by a meter across, tapering to a screw thread. It looks … Continue reading