Tuesday, May 27

A Well-Mannered Classic

AS THE RAIN continued to fall outside – through a cold gale most unlike May, but it was there all the same, and chilling, too – I sat on the sofa and picked through a box of strawberries from the fridge, where, besides falling victim so grey softening and worms, they had become very cold. I pulled back their green hair and put one after another into my mouth. I was in the fourth day of a cold. It was a foolish mistake of me to leave the flat in the morning without jacket nor coat, because as I rushed to the bookshop at lunch, it rained terrible, large drops that were cold and soaked me through; upon returning to the office, I was dripping, shaking and my cold had an even stronger grip on me. Bookless, I sat there, drying very slowly, staring at the rain running down the glass sides of building.
There are times when I will confront my reflection in the mirror. I had noticed, for the first time since I had studied art aged seventeen, how close my two eyes are together, as though they are struggling to meet in the middle. Who was the bridge of my nose to keep them apart? Underneath them are strung grey bags of skin that I regard with disgust. I have been sleeping very badly; up often and with nightmares, yet the fragile, curved back at my side – who slept, because of me, even worse – was forgiving and warm. My tongue had dried so that it was alien to my mouth. I poked it out and grabbed it; a dry muscle; I scratched my finger along it and felt little.
The sunny days are gone, bringing behind them rain and cold, but the sun will return in a circle and as a circle.
On Saturday, after a number of trials, we were a wreck, without a north or a south. (The rain was still falling, relentless, uncaring; beyond the tall window it tried to be invisible.) We fucked in the kitchen astride an orange plastic chair; in the mirrored fridge I watched her hips go back and forth, pouting her bum out then flaring her tuft of pubic hair. I fell into a trance from which I could not drift, nor did I wish to. Her rocking, slow then fast, thrust down on me, caused me to drift away. I was woken by the jolts of my orgasm, into a day that fell inexorably into a dull misery that neither of us could shake. It was all we could do to sit there and wait for something, between the rain, to happen. Finally, on the brink of losing our minds and falling down, we managed to save ourselves.
My friend is getting married soon. The invite sits on my desk, all yellow and embossed. Though I am aware of his middle name, I had not known hers before, so the sight of it was a lesson for me. He met her about a decade ago, when she was young and all her blondeness was tender, without having fully flowered.
One day she left him and he, with sadness, accepted that she had left him, that she was not coming back. Soon enough, she returned, all sad-eyed and realised. She could not get better than him, I supposed, for though she was a sight prettier than he, my friend was most charming and a gentleman.
Now they are to marry in an elegant country estate. I shall be in attendance, somewhat distant, I imagine, to those I grew up with.
Still, the invite is on my desk. It arrived in a thick envelope.
When I got home from work, I saw that there were some yellow apricots in the fridge. She told me—‘There are some apricots in the fridge. One of the regulars at the pub gave them to me.’ They are plump and now they are cold, too. I will eat the apricots fresh from the fridge and their cold flesh with shiver my teeth and I will look out of the window at the month of May as she rotates underneath her stars.
If I continue further with my self-portrait, I am drawn my nose which is small like my mother’s yet pointed like my father’s, so that even in my flat’s mirror I am not away from them, but staring at a piece of them that is a part of them together. I wait for the rain to let up, though when it does there is still the cold wind. It is the cold wind that I cannot bear; rain, let it be big and heavy but let it be warm and slightly month of May, but the cold is not of here at all, and it drags me downward so that I cannot see.
We go to bed while the trains are still running, their piece-by-piece light smattering our bedroom wall, and the day is channeled into a drain.

No comments:

Post a Comment

Blank Template By subinsb.com