My latest piece at FVR, with thanks to Kristiana
It only takes the sound of glass breaking to remind me of the taste; wet concrete and burned rust. Last week I sat in a bar facing a drizzly street and stared at my own reflection for hours as humanity shuffled by. The gangly barman, who’d been hopelessly flirting with his co-worker, dropped 125mls of cheap Merlot onto the floor and his cheap shoes, and I snapped out of the polished glass and tasted her again. Felt the crunch under my teeth, the cherry blossom breath and chipped nails.
Walking side by side amid the slush and dirty snow our words are just a duel – fencing stabs and slashes as we prod and poke and look for the weak spots. In boxing terms I am the slugger, throwing out haymakers and uppercuts with all the subtlety of the Las Vegas strip. She was always the cruiserweight, picking her…
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