Tuesday, March 11

C#

I OPENED THE WINDOW (because it is Spring, not yet christened by her first day, glistening out over the grime and cold lichen and half-coats-half-jacket crowd; because the bustle is squinting against the sun that is now creeping up over the buildings there for the first time in months, sundialling the walking figures who slightly squeal at their crisp shadows) and the nights are not so cold against my t-shirt.
A train rattles over the points (if I tell you I was on my old train Friday-last, you would not believe me, but all was well, and a slow sweat was upon me; a slow sweat was upon my bottle of water; Lisa showed me an oil I could rub on my wisdom teeth, which, so angrily, poke up out of my gums in all sorts of terribly unorthodox angles; the train was as dead as I remembered it; by the end of the journey (pulling into my hometown (the second) I could not believe I had ever made that journey twice a day) it was all loneliness and another time zone; not a city to shine a light on) and, after the silence settles, I hear a note upheld over the sky.
I hold my tuner to the sky, stringing my arm out far a distance, to catch a glimpse of what it might be.
C—what?—C#.
It is a murder of violins, especially, acoustic against the frame of a night.
She moans in C#. She puts her arms behind her head (accentuating the small breasts she has, her pink nipples, her left emblazoned with a tattoo, raspberries equator’d by a bite, heaving), grips the frame and tightens.
C# is the relative minor to E, where my brother is lain. All Along The Watchtower is in C# minor, but the guitar is tuned down a half-step and maybe it is the wind howling a C# for me. Who can tell? The streets I walk down during the daylight hours sing no such note. C# is the fifth of F# and I consider that a very strong chord; I have always seen F# minor as a yellow square. Its neighbour, G major, I see as a green triangle.
C is the shoulder of a black C#.
She bought me a plant for my flat; it sits there, waxy and green, with its white flowers poking out, like paper crowns, at whatever comes near. I water it and, while I am in my work clothes—she in her cotton soft pyjamas—she tells me—‘You should water it with the filtered water. It’ll be better for it.’
The mystery of the C# is never explained to me. Not even when I close the window fast, against the fragile breeze, is any clarity offered to me on where this C# comes from or why it intrudes so faintly upon my Tuesday night; because Tuesday night is the most inconspicuous of nights, never endowing a memory or celebrating an anniversary. No-one has ever been born on a Tuesday. There is just a C# singing out across the lovely scene outside my window. Another train comes along and detaches it from the air. This is all I can think of.

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