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Conversation Piece by Michael Gouda © 2007 Michael Gouda "Hello, I'm Jocelyn," I said. The guy looked up, serious, curly hair bleached blond by the sun, ruffled by the wind, thick eyebrows – the sort I like – a half smile on his lips. He was naked except for a pair of faded blue jeans, low over his hips showing an inch or two of paler untanned skin. I wondered what he saw. I was taller than he was, olive-skinned while he was fair. I thought I was good-looking. I hoped he didn't see 'pretty'. "Hi," he said, companionably enough, though obviously wondering why I had come up to him and introduced myself. "Jocelyn," I said again. "Usually my friends call me Joss but I answer to either." He nodded and then glanced around. An attempt to escape? Looking for help? There were certainly other people around, in fact the beach front was quite crowded, but no one was paying attention to us. "Lance told me to introduce myself," I said. The boy's eyes widened. His mouth opened slightly as if he was about to say something. His lips were full and inviting and I could imagine kissing him. "Lance?" "Lance is my cousin," I said, as if that explained everything, I noticed he had a bandage round his right wrist. "Have you hurt yourself?" I asked, pointing. "It's nothing. Just a slight sprain." "Could make doing certain things difficult." He laughed, obviously sensing my intended meaning. "I manage," he said. "I'm left-handed." "Ambisextrous?" "You mean 'ambidextrous'." I left it at that. He could think what he wanted. He took a step along the pavement, obviously intending to carry on with his walk from which I had stopped him. "You going somewhere?" I asked. He looked me full in the face, obviously uncertain whether to be cross at my persistence, or to take it as a friendly advance. "Nowhere in particular," he said. "Just walking." "Joss," I reminded him. "Fancy a beer?" A cloud passed across the sun and suddenly it wasn't as warm as it had been. It was after all September and the autumn was as good as upon us. He shivered as if he'd been touched by a cold finger. "Or a coffee?" He shrugged and then said, "OK. Coffee would be fine." We went into the cafe. It wasn't crowded, too early for lunch, too late for breakfast. There were tables by the window and banquettes for four at each one. We picked an empty one and sat opposite. I knew his knees couldn't be far from mine. If I slumped down slightly I could probably touch. I sat up straight, as did he. I noticed he held his cup with his left hand. The coffee was unusually good and we chatted. He was on holiday, so was I. He lived in London, so did I, though at opposite ends of the city. Suddenly he looked me full in the face. "Do you do this often? Picking up strangers?" "Strangers?" The penny dropped. "Aren't you Michael Ferguson? Lance's friend." "No. My name's Peter – Peter Franklin. I don't know anyone called Lance." "I'm so sorry." I felt embarrassed. "Not to worry." A pause, and then he smiled and added, "Joss."
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