I figure when people have secrets, but I can’t figure the secrets out, what they are, which I guess is why I haven’t been recruited by a specialist government agency, why I never know a disaster’s going down when it is. I assess after, am an aftermath-wallower, understand the intracacies of disengaged looks, feel tension like frission between people’s lips. My job title could be ‘Eye-Fucking Expert’ but instead I settle for the minimum-wage sorts of fall-into jobs we own since the Millennium turned, which was a bad New Year for me, if the eve’s an indication of the coming year, of every coming there will be. And god knows, we’ve all predicted wrong.
I’d tit-tape you to stay. But a sticky technique is romantically risky; I’ve not undone a shirt since 2004. Then, I got dumped every 2 months, at bus stops. I was a kiss to recoil from. You recoiled from.
So I’m tit-taping you, cutting ex-wife’s reins from wrists and severing ties to her children. This is not a developmental issue. Her molasses are silicone chrysalises and the kids belong to potent scraps of chat room fuck.
I tit-tape and it’s a bung job and every first is hers to lord and she bought your Morrissey shirt from a jumble sale at a church, mumbling self-taught curses in deep slurs, a baby’s gurgle. And she said she was Lilith.
Don’t try too hard, or do, but don’t give advice before you know, and you’ll not know when you know because there’s no graduation ceremony, and the age gap pops like a DVD case that someone else owned first, and the skin on skin is something electric, and you can’t help the thoughts, that own age is two the same, and this is alternative, and you’ve reached to outer space since Signs which was after Sixth Sense and you’d embrace another reality if it opened like a set of soundless bead curtains, and you wish you could cup every lost year and live through his time because you’ve missed so much, and what’s left isn’t enough somehow, because eleven years gone, he’s got eleven years more, and every word you say’s a word he’s said and you’ll not match and how much longer will clashing be in fashion? The hairdresser said dip-dye’s not popular like it was in 2009, and 11, and eleven is a prince, is a Jack, is almost.
You know that you’re third. You’re three and you’re okay with that. You’ve never won a woman in any show that you’ve been in, so being close, getting close, being under’s an improvement, scaling up, sort of promotion, almost okay, next step for you. And god knows you’ve been working. Every god you can think of.
Guard down is not a way to be when the competition’s this fierce: up against husbands and elders and women. Pretend that you didn’t once almost date Angelina Jolie. Because I bet you had the chance and you blew it.
You stop trusting yourself, and instead the tastes of others are a plethora of sexual attacks on your senses and palms, and you’ve never smelt a smell better than butter, seen a man transform more than Ewan McGregor, understood why a poem’s perfect, anthologised or even memorised, and you prayed once to Katy Perry, after the god times didn’t work out and you wondered what you could replace church with and not really feel it. Keanu Reeves and Cameron Diaz know each other.
Once, I wanted you in public but, looking on it this way round, maybe I wanted only what I knew I’d never have, like Hugo Boss or George Clooney’s transition from syndicated TV based on books to direction, and writing and frames, and two-yearly girlfriends who maybe sign contracts or something.
And you, and the years younger, think evasion is a boyfriend-girlfriend game, that snacks are placation, and emasculation is a text book term you haven’t learned yet. Next year, college, semester one.
Any job which isn’t over you isn’t a career I’m afraid, not what I’m planning for, or on, enrolling in continuous professional development courses for or retraining or experiencing work situations for years for free in the hope of a salary.
This might be the start of the slow dissolve, like sugar not quite melting in lukewarm tea, and our sweetness is tart, or will be, once the season’s second half airs.