By John Nolan
My heels were filled with four pounds of lead each. I’m just shy of sixteen stone, so for insurance, I stitched a row of sea-fishing weights into the hem of my blazer. The weights ruined the hang of the fabric, pulling the shoulders down into a slump; but it was necessary. The heavier I felt, the better.
I was dressed in my usual garb. Polo and oversized jeans. I mostly wear baggy jeans out of habit, not as some throwback to my teenage grunge years. It wasn’t a fashion statement. I was certainly not dressed as one ought to be for a first date, but I had no choice.
I had found the perfect ankle weights at Argos—page 402 of the catalogue. £9.99. I could fill the pouches with play sand and fasted securely behind my faded denim. I remembered the model in the picture of the Argos catalogue had been wearing them over leggings, with a broad smile on her face. I had no idea why she was smiling. The scratchy nylon straps chafing my skin with every step. I looked like a man prepared for severe gales, or perhaps a boot camp training session.
We were meeting inside the Costa on the outskirts of Harwich International port. The automatic doors slid open and shut with a rhythmic whoosh, letting in the dull roar of the ferry traffic outside. Inside, the air was still and smooth with a gentle humming of conversation.
Her name was Laura.
She sat across from me, sipping a flat white, and she was, without hyperbole, the most devastatingly grounding woman I had ever seen. She had eyes the colour of sea glass, fiery hair, and a laugh that made you want to tell her every secret you’d ever kept.
That was the danger.
“It’s loud in here,” she said, raising her voice over the sudden shriek of milk being steamed behind the counter. “I usually like the quiet. Do you come here often?”
“Only when I need to remind myself I’m not going anywhere,” I said.
She tapped a fingernail against the rim of her cup—click, click, click. “That’s poetic. Or sad. I haven’t decided yet.”
“Probably a bit of both,” I admitted. “I like watching the ferries. Big, heavy things. Up close, you’d never expect them to be so…”
“I like watching the people,” she countered, leaning in. “Wondering where they’re going. Wondering if they’re running away or running toward something.” Laura paused to swirl the froth with a flimsy looking wooden stirrer. “Probably a bit of both.” when she laughed her red hair swayed like a dancing flame.
The movement sent a tiny ripple of air across the table. “So,” she continued, “You mentioned you work as a software… engineer? That sounds… steady.”
“It keeps my feet on the ground,” I said. It was a joke I made often, usually to reassure myself. I felt the familiar tug in my sternum. It started as a flutter, like a trapped bird, and then expanded into a physical upward yearning. My ears popped, the way they do when a plane takes off.
Dizziness and pressure.
The lead boots were heavy, but my insides felt lighter than helium. My toes left the insoles of my shoes, hovering in the empty space of the leather toe-box. I clamped my hands onto the edge of the tiny square table. It was cold and sticky under my palms. My knuckles turned white. To the casual observer—and specifically to Laura—I hoped it looked like I was just intensely engaged in the conversation, or at worst, suffering from a mild digestive issue.
“It is steady,” I managed to say, my voice tight. “I like… its predictability.”
Laura smiled.
It was a knowing, conspiratorial smile. The pull in my chest doubled. My knees bumped gently against the underside of the table with a hollow thud. I grit my teeth, using my triceps to force my torso down, trying to keep my blazer from bunching up too much. You see, I have a sickness. It flares up in stressful situations. Its has a medical name. “Benign Spontaneous Schizoid-affective Anti-Gravitational Decoupling Syndrome.” or Buoyancy Sickness. But I just call it BS for short.
Usually, it’s something you grew out of, like bed-wetting or believing in Father Christmas. A childish affliction. Physical manifestation of unmanaged joy. Adults were supposed to be heavy. Adults were supposed to be weighed down by paying tax, existential dread, and lower back pain. To float was to admit you hadn’t been crushed by the world, yet. It was professionally embarrassing and socially lethal. It is at least 66.6% (recurring) of the reason why I am single.
“Are you okay?” Laura asked. She lowered her cup with a rattle against the saucer. “You look a bit tense. Is the coffee alright?”
“It’s great,” I managed. My palms were clamming up. I was currently exerting about thirty pounds of downward force just to keep my arse on the chair. The wood of the seat groaned in protest. “I’m just… really enjoying this croissant.”
There was at least a kernel of truth in it. I looked at the almond croissant on my plate. It was a flaky, buttery mess. Absolute deliciousness in pastry form. I needed to eat it. Normal human beings ate croissants on dates. But to eat, I would need to let go of the table with at least one hand.
I calculated the physics of it. Imprecise, juvenile calculus running through my head. The lead boots gave me a solid base, but my centre of gravity was shifting upward rapidly because Laura was looking at me with genuine interest. If I let go with my left hand, I would tilt. I had to be quick. I would have to uppercut the pastry directly to my mouth, something akin to a prize fighter during the Championship rounds. Uppercut the pastry, man.
“I love their pastries,” I said.
I released my left hand. Immediately, my left shoulder shot up three inches—a woman’s perception of three inches, that is. I masked it by leaning casually to the right, grabbing a wooden fork to stab at the croissant.
“Me too,” Laura said, oblivious. “I bring my daughter here on Saturdays. It’s got a nice atmosphere. A bit chaotic sometimes, but nice.” on cue one of the baristas dropped some crockery.
She laughed again.
The sound vibrated in my chest like a bass drum. The upward force became violent. I was a balloon held down by a toddler’s grip. My right hand, still clutching the table edge, began to sweat. Friction was failing me. I was slipping. Oh god, I was slipping. Don’t float, I begged. Be heavy. Think about the economy. Think about climate change. Think about Thatcher, for Christ’s sake. But then she did the worst possible thing. She reached out and touched my hand—the one holding the fork. The one I was about to return to death gripping the table.
“You’re trembling,” she said softly. Her skin was warm, a stark contrast to the cold table. “You don’t have to be nervous. I’m nervous too, you know. And it’s just coffee. Besides, we’ve been talking for weeks.”
The sensation of her touch was electric. It severed my connection to the earth completely. My joy was absolute. Joy was always a physical rejection of the floor. The fork slipped from my numb fingers. It clattered onto the laminate flooring with a loud ting.
“Oh,” she said. “I’ll get it.”
“No!” I shouted, probably a touch too loudly. The couple at the next table stopped talking. The family at one of the larger tables also turned towards us.
Reflex took over. It was instinct. You drop something; you reach for it, don’t you? I let go of the table with my right hand to dive for the fork. That wad my fatal error. Up until that point the dare had been salvageable.
It happened in silence. Without the table to anchor me, the lead boots were useless against the sheer force of it. The fishing weights may as well be made of cotton wool. I didn’t dive down. I shot up.
I ascended past Laura’s startled face. I saw the part in her hair. The coffee house lights catching all of her glorious reds and blacks. I saw the dust on top of the hanging light fixtures. My blazer flapping as I rose, the fishing weights clinking together uselessly. I hit the ceiling with a soft thud, my back pressed flat against the acoustic tiles. I hovered there, ten feet in the air, legs dangling, looking down at the wreckage of our date. Up here, the air was warmer, vibrating with the low electrical hum of the lighting track and air conditioning.
The entire Costa fell silent. A barista stopped grinding beans. A woman in the corner lowered her newspaper with a sharp crackle.
Laura sat there, frozen. She looked at my empty chair. Then, slowly, she tilted her head back. She looked up at me, pinned against the ceiling like a rogue party balloon. I wanted to die. End it all right there. I wanted to deflate and crumble into a heavy, dense pile of flaccid sparkly plastic. Stick a pin in me. I’m done.
“I have a condition,” I whispered from the rafters. “I… I didn’t put it on my profile. I’m sorry.” You get used to apologising when you suffer from chronic BS.
Laura stared.
She didn’t laugh. She didn’t check her watch or grab her bag to leave. Instead, she stood up. She picked up her napkin, wiped the crumbs from her mouth, and walked over to where I was hovering. She reached up, but she was far too short.
She dragged her chair over—it scraped loudly against the floor, a screech that made me wince. She stepped up onto it, balancing carefully in her heels. She reached up again, grabbing the fabric of my denim leg. Laura didn’t try to pull me down. She just held on, anchoring me.
“So,” she said, looking up at me, her eyes crinkling slightly at the corners. “The coffee is getting cold. Do you want me to pass your croissant up, or are you planning on coming down eventually?”
I felt the heat of the room rush to my face, but strangely, the panic began to fade. The crushing weight of the world didn’t return, but the frantic lightness eased. I felt myself sink an inch, then two. Maybe three. Hard to say when you are talking inches.
“I might need a minute,” I said.
“Take your time,” she said, holding tight to my ankle. “I’ve got you.”
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