Milk Bottles


I remember a time when I sat in that great plastic place, surrounded by the hooting dick holes, dripping with semen and confidence, already staring into their futures, looking out of the windows to the expensive houses over the hill and knowing that one day they will own one.  Nice driveway.  Room for two cars.  Maybe he’ll let The Wife buy a car, maybe he’ll let her drive on actual roads.  Then again, maybe he won’t.  Have you seen the way she rolls her pastry dough when making home-made pies?  She’s just an accident waiting to happen.  Better leave her with that brat of a nine year old who steals his little brother’s football stickers, and tears up his drawings.

I pick at a piece of the furniture.  It’s less than nine months old and already looks past the point of labour – it appears ready to explode and pour blood and debris onto the floor.  Mr H—— has already had me in his office to explain how inappropriate I am to society.  He didn’t say it obviously, but I can read between his lines, and his lines are as far apart as the latitudinal ones I singularly failed to give a shit about in Geography today.  So what if Moscow is a few hours different to us?  I bet they still have shit lives, and great lives, and I bet some fuck and I bet some never fuck at all, and some just try to be and others try to be not.  Who cares about Hawaii?  Who really gives a shit about Norway?

So I’m kicking stones into drains and failing.  Some of them bounce from the kerb and make loud snaps and cracks against the edges of cars and I hope that the damage is terminal.  I’m different now.  Some little cunt bumped his football against one of my wheels the other day and I threw myself out of my house, parachuted into his limited field of consciousness and gave him an enemy for life.  But this isn’t some samurai film.  He won’t try and find me, he’ll just stew on the memory and maybe it will make him one day – maybe it will begin his drug problem.

She stomped into my view, pinned me against a wall by the lapels and gave my school tie an incurable knot.  I walk the same paths now and I see cracks and I swear that it isn’t due to ice or heat or plants or any of that rubbish I learned in Geography; it was those first footsteps into my vision that destroyed tarmac and left these fossils for only the right kind of eyes to see.

Sweat and CK One.  Her body perspirated and so did mine, and I knew we had something.  She stole her brother’s fragrance, because it made so much sense for a punk rock bitch to squirt herself with the funny water of the pretentious and clean.  I drank it in like the very molecules could preserve us in a union for ten thousand years.  It lasted maybe ten thousand minutes.  But the memory… it clings deep.

I took her to see a skeleton in a glass coffin, in a corner of the local library filled with Restricted Books.  Porno pulp, ‘amateur photography’ and anatomy.  Mr Graceland was forever being thrown out for looking at the images of the female form in veins.  I didn’t hate him though, he gave me chewy sweets for every minute I could distract the attendent, but I knew I didn’t admire him enough to want to be him one day.

She was so impressed by this cadaver, this collection of bleached bones, that she actually removed her earphones.  Stopped chewing her gum and gazed down at those gapped teeth, the hole-pricked shoulders and the long fingers.  She asked me so many questions, I started to make up answers and then I started to believe my own answers until this thing had an entire personality individual from it’s reality.  I knew it’s age, sex, hair colour, diet.  I knew how many children it had, when it died and why.  I knew everything.  And all I had to go on was a glass rectangle of bones and her expectant face.

She’d warned me the condom was out of date, and that it might be dry or just break.  But it slipped on easily enough and it didn’t appear to have lost too much of its lubrication.  We fucked in minutes; what can I say?  I was excited.  But it’s only now that I remember how, as we grinded and gasped, that she kept burying her tongue in my gapped teeth and grabbing hold of my long fingers.

Author: jimmicampkin

Writer and photographer (and occasional other things) currently living in the North East of England. Everything is my own unless otherwise stated. So blame me.

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