A Couple of Voyeurs

Hannah Armour, United Kingdom

Before, we would go straight to each other’s flats, order takeout and talk and laugh and talk. That was until the silence got too loud—then we moved to the pub. It was easier to exchange pleasantries with a pint within reach. Here, we didn’t have to do the talking, we let others do it for us. 

Meeting her at the train station was too much effort—why spend another 4 quid on a bus just to take it right back—so we met at the pub tonight. Our favourite was the Three Goats Heads. Friday around 8ish was the optimum time. It was one of those ‘no phones, look up’ kind of pubs situated in the centre of Oxford. Unnecessarily pretentious if you ask me. Susie always worried I’d be kicked out whenever I checked the time, as if they were gonna boot me to the curb. Now, she didn’t mention it as she stumbled in with her polka dotted duffel bag, finding me in our usual corner scrolling Instagram.

It was a dingy, cramped place; not crowded, not enough people knew it existed, but the low ceilings and large furniture had a claustrophobic effect. Our table had a booth, so we could sit together and watch. There were a couple tables we could always count on being there. Sure, the individuals changed but their conversations stayed the same. 

First was Gary (or so he loudly introduced himself as to the bartender): any sad, lonely, old man who was on the way to being shit-faced. He was never completely shit-faced, at least we never saw him like that, maybe that came later. He didn’t have a designated table, he more so roamed, like a scavenger, he picked off the weaklings. Anyone sitting alone was at risk of a visit from him. He’d plop beside them and ask a few polite questions (“What’s yer name? Where ya from? What ya drinking?”) before launching into his life’s story, occasionally dropping in racist and/or sexist comments. Sometimes there was a wife at home, sometimes not, but there was always talk of his children. Usually, if the bartender was young and of the female persuasion, he’d lurk there all night. Tonight however, the bartender was a grumpy, middle aged woman who had already told three people to put away their phones. Gary knew better than to harass her. 

Instead Gary chose the next table and was already approaching it, ignoring the cloud of pretentiousness that hung over it. They always wore that purposeful ‘homeless chic’ look—once one actually wore a Hawaiian shirt in December—which was never convincing. Today they were heavily leaning into the androgynous vibe with the leader (the loudest) in a black turtle neck and silk scarf placed decoratively around his neck. He repositions it every once in a while, making sure they lay parallel to one another at equal lengths. Each had that specific voice, a mix of RP, tutoring and never being doubted. No one has ever called bullshit on whatever their most recent monologue topic was. Which, at this moment, was Communism. I think the topic was sparked by the yelling in the kitchen (someone hadn’t been paid on time), moving swiftly to the vast topic of the working class and then the class divide and what if there was no class divide and then bam! Communism. While Gary usually knew nothing on the topic they were discussing, he always contributed the best way he saw fit: criticising whoever was Prime Minister and calling them a wanker. In his defence, he usually wasn’t wrong. 

A squeal is heard from the corner and we all turn to glance at them: a table of girls in tight clothing cheering for the arrival of their next round of shots. This is only their first stop of the night. Next will be the bar across from the club. Then the club itself. Their table is that of an action movie: there’s constant movement. They’re never all sitting, at any given time half are in the bathroom discussing their last tinder date. In 15 minutes or so someone will spill their drink and another squeal will emerge as the scramble to clean it up begins. Pictures will be taken on various devices, methods from this century and the last, as they immortalise a night they won’t remember. Throughout the evening, they’ll start losing members. Ones that get too drunk or too sad or live too far. Next Friday, when they do this again they’ll have new stories that sound suspiciously like the ones they told this week with names swapped out. Susie watches them more than I do. I can’t tell if she’s observing their behaviour in a Attenborough manner or a jealous one. 

She treats me like them now, like the others. Like we’re just good friends. Like we don’t know everything about the other—maybe that’s true. It’s hard to pinpoint when exactly it happened, at what point we stopped sharing. But I can still salvage us. It’ll all change now: we’ll spend the weekend together and all the inside jokes and secret handshakes will come rushing back. She’ll love me again.

The last table was a couple in the early stages of their relationship. These took a bit more observing to figure out. If you were within earshot there were the telltale first date questions but if you were out of earshot, like we were today it was a bit more difficult. You have to work off of body language alone. Susie liked observing these couples best, something about their awkwardness really charmed her. Personally, they made me cringe—I get embarrassed thinking about the beginning of Susie and I, how I obsessed over her gives me goosebumps.

After about 6 minutes of eavesdropping we agreed: the table opposite us was definitely on a first date. He spoke with his hands and, because he was the only one speaking, it was like a game of charades. Put a flyswatter in his hand and he’d be the nation’s top fly assassin. Her reactions were obligatory, a gasp here and there, her own hands holding up her head. She agrees with everything he says, not that he gives her much time—he waits for the nod and then continues his lecture. Wrapping her sweater closer around her, Susie and I exchange a glance. A second date doesn’t seem likely. Confirmed when he came back from the bar, loudly declaring, “It was a meta-joke. You didn’t even realise.” Somehow I don’t think they’re going to work out…

But then it all fades into a familiar white noise. The wasted girls kept screaming. Gary kept drinking. The communist group kept debating. The first daters kept flirting. And we were stuck here in a stasis watching them all, just a couple of voyeurs.

Hannah is a second year English Literature student at Royal Holloway, University of London. Alongside studying literature, she writes it occasionally too.