Slides in and out of focus.
The pattern on the carpet spells out our fate. Inside my mouth feels sore and chewed up, because that's what it is. It's a habit I got into when I met you. The first time we met, and I didn't know what to say next, so that's what I did. Chewed up, biting the sides of my mouth. Like a kind of punishment.
Our stolen glances are out of sync. "It's bothering me."
Now you have a reason to look, so you do. Hi.
“What this could mean.”
Propped up by elbows. Or hands, depending on how you look at it. Are you looking, no, at my leg. From the knee to half way down the calf is a long split of the flesh, held together by red, black and yellow blood, scab and pus.
“Can you not look at that?”
You keep your eyes where they are, then, slowly, look away out of the open balcony doors.
“You worry too much.” Something's drawn you up, out to stare over the tops of the trees and across to the row of balconies on the other side of the avenue. “Great view up here.”
“Yeah, yeah it is. A fucking great view, that will be the same fucking great view for as long as we're up here.”
“Fifth floor?”
“Count.”
“Too high to jump then?”
I know you're not looking at me because if you were, well. The back of your head is smoking. Out comes a half empty packet of cigarettes, out comes one particularly fat one, even though they're all meant to be the same, flick, lit, in and out it goes. Nicotine stained air.
“You could abseil it. No one would miss you.”
“I'd be alright then, at least I'd be dead or dying on the ground. Better than being well and truly alive up here with you being such a dick about everything.”
There's a bit too much thigh showing. A quick hoist of the bath robe and it's sorted. Enough to keep you guessing anyway. If you ever turn round, which I expect you will when you decide you want a toke or six. True to form, you mutter something about nothing I expect and saunter over to steal my fag, suck on it like there's been a drought and shove in back in my waiting fingers, a mere stub.
You can't see, I'm glowering. Yes, at you. Mangy old bastard.
My feet get cold. Time to move. There's nowhere really to go, except to the bathroom and then you'd only come banging on the door after two minutes asking (hopefully?) whether I'd topped myself. I feel a tantrum coming. Actually, this flat is too small to throw a decent one, and if you're going to behave like a child, you might as well do it properly.
“Got a plan then, Maestro?” Our arms touch, sharing the rail. The cute guy we sometimes see shopping in Lidle is watering his balcony, shirtless. “Oh I see. Right.”
The plants get fed, he disappears. I'm the next best thing.
“Not really. Seeing as your last attempt went so well.” Idly, you finger the end of the black spikes separating us from the neighbours. And the rest of the world. “Don't worry, I give you permission to eat me if I die first.” You think for a moment. “There's no way I'd touch you. Not enough to fill a plate.”
“Fuck off.” I wouldn't mind eating you now, actually. But I don't suppose that option is on the menu.
The Sacre Coeur looks great this time of evening. I think you are equally lost in the horizon, meaning we're in for a long night of thinking aloud and staring at ceilings. You put your hands behind your head and stretch. Has anyone ever told you that you have good armpits? Because you do. Now I really want to hug you. Timing my move, I grab you round the middle as your arms drop back down.
“Cheeky.”
“You love it.”
Maybe that's true. We fit pretty well, for an odd couple. Couple, ha. That might provoke assumptions. Time will make you desperate, and we've got plenty of that.
