Essay: Pyro

By: Susanne Krenz

We met in a dingy Glasgow pub. Him, hiding in a dark corner and engrossed in a book. Me, on the run—from other people but mostly myself.

I was studying in Edinburgh at the time. That day, my class had gone to Glasgow to visit some naval ship. I felt guilty and alienated for not being the least bit interested, while my fellow students climbed around the naval base, chatting to the officers and generally being excited. I didn't act or dress like the others and stuck out like a sore thumb. In the group photo from that day, I’m standing on the far right in my purple furry jacket and boots, laughing awkwardly. There are no arms draped around my shoulders nor my waist. I look like I was photoshopped in as some cruel joke.

Apart from failing to connect with my classmates, I was at the tail end of a bad break up that made me want to isolate myself even more. Most of my peers lived on campus, but I had jumped at the chance to stay in the heart of the city. I loved the smell of pubs—a mix of stale lager and musty carpet—and how, after it rained, the puddles reflected the street lights. The basement flat I was staying in was almost womb-like: dark but warm and cosy, with mice scurrying about inside the walls. They'd scatter tiny droppings on the carpet sometimes but were polite enough to leave me alone otherwise.

Battered by heartbreak, I wrapped myself in a soothing haze and tried very hard not to get too sober, especially after sunset. I forgot more names than I remembered. My legs were perpetually bruised. Edinburgh's winding alleyways swallowed me up and spat me out, over and over and over, leaving behind a crazed glint in my eye.

Considering how vulnerable and raw I was, I'm lucky it was him that I met. He looked like a taller and skinnier Colin Farrell and spoke with a thick Glaswegian accent. His eyes were kind. Like me, he drank too quickly and too much. Ten years my senior, he also had great taste in books and movies, a messy flat, and a huge cock. I discovered all that on the first night because after chatting for a bit, we went straight back to his place.

That could have been the beginning and the end of it, but the many train tickets I've kept tell a different story.

He gave me the stability I needed. I was the excitement he had longed for. Both of us were lonely. We hung onto each other like comrades in a trench war. He enabled me and took care of me in equal measures. I liked that his floors were littered with books and coins, and that the only light source in his bathroom were battery-operated candles, and that his hands were always slightly shaky, except when they were caressing me. Most of all, I liked gazing out at the Scottish countryside on the train back to Edinburgh, already missing him. But I also knew that what we had was a snapshot in time. I was only a few months shy of moving to another country.

When the dreaded goodbye eventually came, I cried for two weeks. But whatever we'd had, it was too fragile to last the distance. We kept in touch but he grew increasingly needy, and I grew increasingly resentful. He visited once. Plucked from his Glaswegian surroundings, far out of his comfort zone, he was just as insecure as I’d ever been. It became clear to both of us that we had run our course. He wrote, “It wasn't easy to let you go, but I know that you've already let me go and I need to move on. I can't delude myself that you would finish uni and come back to Scotland to be with me.”

Soon our messages became fewer and farther between. I've been back to Scotland multiple times since (that's one love story I'll never let go of), but he and I never crossed paths again. “Don't let your heart make a mess of your head”, one of his last messages read, “you deserve much more than that.”

I'd like to think he's right.