Patience she always told me. Five fingertips on my chest as my heart burst to be grabbed by that glowing palm. Patience she said again, and pushed me away. When it is our time, it will be our time. She looked me deep into my skull. Our time.
I don’t care about time these days. When I look around me I see time as a cancer. Time rots wood, crumbles concrete, devours entire coastlines, throws towns and cities into the abyss. Time eats our flesh and leaves our skin hanging over the bones like a fishing net flung over an old coble. Time fades like old 35mm film, crackling and hissing into impenetrable white. When I try and remember now I can’t; it is just the endless whirring of a brain devoid of content. Hissing and thrashing. Fuck time.
Fuck time I say out loud. I meant to say patience but my thoughts overtake me these days. I’m sitting on a grassy stump that used to be Our Tree, looking towards a supermarket that squats over what was once Her House; I’ve counted the steps and her living room was somewhere between Fresh Fish and World Foods. The same living room where she told me that cum tastes like mushrooms. We kissed, we devoured, we probed and we investigated inside jeans and up long skirts, black knickers and white boxers. She jerked me off, looking me dead in the eye before licking her wrist clean and smiling. Mushrooms… kinda.
Kinda. Well, this is kinda my spot now. I’ve had enough of stomping my feet around the Fish ‘n Pasta aisles trying to find some echo of carpet or wall lines or fireplaces. So instead I sit here and glare at the entrance to this pathetic monolith, without even a plaque to commemorate her memory, daring any of the cunts who march inside to enjoy themselves in the same way as I have done many times under those same blue skies. When everything else decays and dies, no one thinks to look up to the deep blue sky and hope to see some echo of a past that they once knew and now no longer remember.
I remember. When the clouds form into that strange pattern like the bones of a fish, I am thrown back to a conversation where she told me about how much she loved a particular song by a particular band she was into at the time. She looked up to the sky and talked about how the chords of the song swooped like fish in an aquarium; a kind of disordered orderliness as though the dance of snowflakes in a gentle breeze. I was in the middle of extolling my praise for a tune I’d never even heard when she abrupty broke off the conversation and into a sprint. Running in her wake calling her name I could only look up enough to see raven curls flung from left to right like an intense fire and the soles of her chewing gum stained shoes.
Just as I thought she was getting away she stopped at the top of the hill above her house, breathing heavily, waiting for me. I stumbled up to her, sinking to my knees and hacking up phlegm. Eventually I asked her why did you take off like that?
She didn’t say anything but she looked across to a deep red sun sinking into the horizon.
No reason, she shrugged, barely out of breath. I just wanted to know you wanted this as much as me.
I get up off the old wooden stump. Yes, I wanted it as much as you. With every sunrise, every cuttlefish cloud and every maroon evening, I am reminded. But I took that word to heart, and that is why I now sit alone.