Thursday, January 24

Say It Just As Good


Beneath the heart-shaped protrusion of her shoulder bone – an excerpt perfectly placed in light – is a treble clef as her underarm rolls into the soft curve of her breast. A triplet, certainly, evenly spaced, surprising. If I am susceptible to bad memory then it is most often I am reminded of how shapely her arm is. Her wrist is the conjugated baptism of arm into hand, a small ruffling of bone, angular. Her hand is not soft in shape, though it is shapely, no doubt. An index pointed downwards, glancing them hips. Blue veins drip over the top of her hand, middle and ring tucked in, the pinkie a little pronounced, unsure of where to go. Go here, I say.

Rarely am I fortunate to meet someone exceptional, someone who distracts me from the boredom & predictability I find in other people every miserable day. What you might find exceptional in someone I might think was ghastly, and vice versa. One man from the summer was middle-aged, a friend of my father’s though nothing like my father. He was Scottish, softly spoken, drank only tea, didn’t piss, like some sort of saint, bottomless knowledge, enthusiasm, history, literature. I made sure I shook his hand after he had loaded me up with recommendations of novels to read. My new boss – who was a friend before he was my boss – is one such person. So, consider me distracted.

A friend claimed I was like Thatcher in my sleeping habits – less than five hours a night – and I could survive on that. This week, doomed as it very quickly became, has seen me forget how to sleep. I lie in bed and cannot drift off. I try to sleep on the train and it evades me. Maybe I doze off and a stranger wakes me up, then I feel sick and dizzy, nauseous, looking for a bin to prop myself up against. I should be in bed; however I have Madame Bovary, one bottle to finish, another to begin, and a story to continue with. I can just about make it through the day. That will do.

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