10 February 2013


I want him all the way home. 

We discussed perverse traditions (or perhaps it is our enthusiasm that was perverse) – human sacrifice, starvation... 

Half drunk I wander into the designer clothing stores on the way to the bus stop. This had become a ritual, my own perverse tradition. The security guard eyes me suspiciously. I am rained on and dripping on dry clean only items. This delights me because I can’t afford anything and I am above desire for material possessions. (Except that bright red mohair jumper.) I see my face reflected in the flat torso of a black mannequin. My eyeliner is smeared like how his lip half curls under when he talks, breaking his neat mouth lines. Sensitive Elvis. Maybe I want to destroy him. God I love the sweet fug of the first few beers. I had nothing to contribute to the conversation about weightlifting. I am still reeling from his voice. Tissues drop out of every sleeve. Multiplying allergies. Polka dots triple into tesseracts. 

The notes I wrote beat against his breast pocket giving him a rhythm to walk to.

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