Monday, January 12

The Doomed Fate of Champagne Flutes

IT WAS ONE of my new year’s resolution – though already the year does not seem so new, but having, already, lost its lustre – to write more, as I had fallen out of the habit and found myself even worse at it than I was before. So I sit here and I write this, before the closed metal slats of blinds where, from beyond, I can hear the static of rain; the weather report said ‘THUNDERSHOWERS’ a word I had not seen before but that I find quite marvelous, especially as it is so many letters and to type it all out again makes me feel like an accomplished writer: thundershowers, thundershowers and disruptive thundershowers.
She bought me a book for Christmas that is a selection of one-hundred short stories. It is a large, heavy hardback. I lie down on the sofa, when she is nowhere near me, and read it but I am a fool to rest it on my stomach, where it disturbs my dinner and causes me to feel ill; instead I rest the treasured tome on my pelvis. On the inside cover—
‘December 2014’
‘You’ll have to inscribe in this for me.’
‘I couldn’t think of anything to write.’
The book is wonderful, and I am very fond of it, but, at night, when I lay down to read and enjoy some wine, I find that it torments me – even when upon the sill, next to the assorted cacti, it stares down at me and dances before my eyes.
The writing ideas the internet offers me are terrible so I sit here for a while longer, not looking up. If I just try to write, even through the stagnant heap of my life, something might blossom, or I shall wring my own neck and offer up my obituary to the highest bidder.
She smashed a champagne flute, though a flute that was not full of champagne but co-op prosecco. She was most upset that she should smash such an innocent object. She mopped it up with the toilet roll I had put next to our bed to mop up my semen. Half the roll went to mopping up the spilled prosecco. She fingered the small bits of smashed glass, pushing them here & there over the table. She kept apologising and I kept saying that it was okay.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s okay.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s okay.’
I held no particular fondness for the glassware, and her sister had given them to us, after all. I got her another flute from the cold cupboard and emptied the prosecco bottle into it.
She picked a small piece of glass off of her thigh.
I had thought about her thighs on Sunday morning. I could not stop thinking about her thighs all morning. I masturbated in the shower over the thought of her thighs until I came in long white gallops and almost fell over. Then I showered all of the come away and washed myself.
Even that seems so long ago and barely worth writing about, but it is there, I wrote it. I cannot undo what I have written, even if I were to delete it
And still the rain is falling, but above it all, the loudest sound I hear, clearest and nearest, is that of the rainwater which is falling from a loosened gutter.

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