Page 17 of Sex Ed

‘Oh dear,’ she says, giggling, sympathy in her eyes for once. ‘Not in that accent, right?’

‘No. I just thought it was something we had in common and then I said we could have the runs together. Using those exact words because I didn’t know what I was saying so now it sounds like I want to give her diarrhoea.’

‘Oh, Ed,’ she says, linking an arm into mine, a look on her face like I might just be beyond her help. ‘Do you know what might make you feel better?’

‘Light sedation?’

‘If you gave your friend a lift home?’

‘Is that why you were waiting for me?’

‘Yeah. We can get food? Falafel will make it all better.’

‘Is this because you stole my tuna salad roll?’ I ask her.

‘Well, that too…’

I could make a very long list about the different things Mia does which grate a little but at the top of the list is the way she eats. It’s very hands on and I question how sanitary it is to be picking up slices of tomato, dangling them in your mouth and then making nom-nom-nom sounds like a three-year-old. I also feel like I want to tuck a napkin in her before she starts because she’s getting yoghurt dressing all down her front. I watch as she scrapes it off her T-shirt and then licks it off the same fingers, laughing at what a mess she is. Errant pieces of lettuce sprout out of her mouth like she’s a small pony, one falling onto my car seat.

‘Tasty…?’

‘Falafel is a reason to be alive, Edward,’ she tells me.

The weather has turned on us, April showers meant she ran into the deli, pulling her coat over her head and we’re now eating our falafel parked on the high street, watching as shoppers and commuters run up and down, the reflection of shop signs painting the streets. I don’t want to be seen to agree with Mia, but falafel was an excellent idea.

‘You didn’t tell me you weren’t going to be on the bus today?’ Mia says, a little indignant. ‘I always get a message from you.’

‘I drove. I had to get in early. Are you upset you didn’t get a lift?’ I tell her.

‘No, I’d never have got up in time and then you’d have been grumpy at me for making you late.’

‘I’m always grumpy with you.’

‘I thrive off making you grumpy…’ she says, smiling. There is a small moment of silence. I say silence, but I can still hear Mia chewing. ‘You know, Ed, I’ve been thinking. I share a lot with you. Maybe too much because I am an over-sharer and I think that my life is vaguely amusing and entertaining for those who may not be a part of it…’ she continues. ‘But over the weekend, I realised, you don’t do the same with me. You never have…’

I take quite a large mouthful of falafel at that point as I can see where the conversation is going, and I don’t know if I know what to say next. Please let deep fried chickpeas be the answer here.

She turns to me, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, leaning forward and catching my eye. ‘You shared something with me that was quite important, and I want to be a good friend here. I know you were drunk. If you want me to forget it then I will pretend I never heard it and we can carry on as we were, but if that was some sort of cry for help or you want to chat more then you know that I’m here, right?’

I am quiet because this was not the reaction I was expecting. That was sincere, warm. And this is Mia. Half our conversations end with a punchline or innuendo or making me the butt of her jokes but there is a moment here that feels caring, authentic. So much so that I’m waiting for the joke. Surely, there is a joke here? The joke is me. The sound of rain thunders heavy on my car roof.

‘You’re either quiet because the falafel is too damn tasty, or you’re embarrassed. If it’s option two, then blink twice.’

I turn to her, quietly. I blink twice. I really don’t know what to say to her, to follow up that revelation, because to do so would mean telling her my whole back story of how we’ve got to this point. Maybe it all was some subconscious cry for help in a way.

‘Ed, remember when I went out with that bloke from Tinder and he asked me to pee on him and I did and then I farted on him as well? I told you that story.’ I like how she can recount that story and still continue to gobble down her falafel.

‘You did,’ I whisper. I actually thought I’d wiped that from memory.

‘You can tell me anything. You think I’ve got a big gob, but I also know when to keep it shut…’ she mutters quietly.

‘You do have a big mouth. I’ve just seen you fit a whole pitta in there…’

She laughs and sprays more lettuce around my car.

‘You didn’t tell Caitlin I was a virgin then?’ I ask.

‘No. I did not.’ She looks affronted.

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