The short weekend begins with longing

But lets start at the end and go backwards. Things can make more sense that way.


You find me standing here, mouth slightly open, strange scent playing on my lips. The room dimly lit and last embers burning away. Rips in the lampshade and ashes by the fire. I need to sit down. I gently lower myself to the low white sofa, knees tremble and slowly bend, my face turned up to the sky, which I know is behind all these walls. I just know it.


The purple Fiesta pulls out from its parking space by the bushy hedge. I watch it turn orange, then green, then blue, then disappear in a retinal flare of sodium light as it exits the pattern on the stained glass window that I made, and look through, and see now.


The door is rapidly knocked, the brass sounds on wood. I open it, not quite knowing what to expect. She is back, a second after departure, a hand slides behind my neck, I feel the brush of the bristles on the back of my head, hear their sound, then feel the warmth, the wetness, and she is gone again, leaving me to comprehend that one, the blackness of the hall flashing in my mind, as I wander to the door to my flat, happy that it didn’t swing shut and lock me out.


She steps through the door, foot falls on the wooden floor, makes a little “click.” It sounds like a camera shutter, shop blinds falling down…


Kisses. Sunday snuggles. Affection. Kisses. Lindy Hop. Laughter. Intuition. Personality test. Psychology. Ferris Bueller. Taxi Driver. Braces. Books. Freud. Friendly Fires. Cat Stevens. If you want to sing out. Harold and Maude. Dell. Rochester. Acer. Camping. Printing press. Podcast. Whippets. Straw hat. Luton. Piano and violin music machine. Wurlitzer. Macarena. Old People. Andrew. Organ Museum. Camp Road. Stained-glass window. Wooden floors. Posters. Schloer. Tea and scones. Iced buns. Low sofa. Pizza. Cleary. 39 Royston Road. St. Albans.


The electronic doorbell plays a little ditty, and I am at the front door before it finishes its refrain. Hello! Come in! Iced buns? Thank you! And Schloer! “The soft drink for adults.”


The pizza looks alright. I’ve cut it up, as evenly as I can, trying to make it all equal, not the usual few extra millimetres for me. I put the dough balls in a bowl, next to the pizza on a wooden cutting board, and artfully skew the pizza slices, after all, presentation is all.


I woke up with my alarm four hours before she was due round. My legs tapped out a beat. I went to Morrisons. Its all very common or garden fayre here, they can’t get away from the idea that its a market stall or something. Pictures of grinning plump butchers in red and white striped aprons holding choice cuts of meat, harassed local teens hustle by with cages of pre-packed ready meals.


I can hear a new world calling me. I can’t get to sleep. I saw a sign outside the swimming pool today that said “The only thing missing… IS YOU!” I get back up and turn the light on, look up to the ceiling, spot the cobwebs and sway slightly. I stroke the hair on my head. I wonder what’s in store for me.


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