Would you fix your nose, hair, weight, waist if it’d make a difference? If it was even the hint of a difference, a possibility that could burn or break you, would you do it? Could you single-mindedly fix yourself on to a goal and extinguish doubt without religion, or are you not in a position to? Would you let someone else be you if it meant who you were, became, could be, was the only sort of worthy that matters? Celebrity. Or would everything end before then?
You strike a balance between suburbs and city and you keep women happy because you were brought up to even though you were raised in a whore house or because of that.
You can’t believe out of every man it’s him that kisses, a grab shock kiss you resist an appropriate amount, open the door after to send a message, or fake send it, you’ll decide after. You’re almost divorced.
Losing a shirt, tie, tartan suit jacket, is enough to impress anybody, and who knew spanners were easy? Who would’ve thought a tap could be mended succinctly. It’s true you have a touch. Each of the three knows it. Every city woman, worker, girl.
No hands – and by holding them back the scene’s underscored with, “I saw Sherlock Holmes. I saw you in it. And you were the villain. You ended things.”
So we end this we end this we end this. We find the toolbox and we stop leaks, mistakes, slips, feelings not substantiated by knowledge or learning or friendships. We smash and we want messiness more than this but we tell everyone we want this because we want it now but now is not tomorrow.
Downhill. Your husband cheated on you and you divorced him and remarried immediately and now you’re unhappy and you’re eating chips and you’re sucking leftover ice cream up like there’s rationing and you’re faking sickness to stay in bed, avoiding sex, having lunch with friends even though clothes stopped fitting months ago.
I know it’s a lie. You didn’t put weight on. You never put on much. And the fat suit’s smooth, fleshy, the joins masked by slopped on foundation which stops us finding your skin hue, halts us knowing you completely. I’d like to enter the lie, lick the edges of it, understand the overlaps, extras. Enjoy the additions, like 50% free washing powder or Wispa Duos. Like anything there’s two of. Every opportunity to do something twice. (I’d __ you twice).
Betty didn’t throw parties. Didn’t know as soon as Megan did about the other identities, which were honest, which was your birthright, and when your actual birthday was or is because you’re not dead and even when you are it’ll still get celebrated, accidentally by secretaries, children, ex-lovers you told everything to in place of telling wives, friends if the people you work with are really that – friends – and not interested in talents, only, but also mistakes, scars, details, style, your politics if you share that. Some people don’t.
This is a trick you’ll play forever, updating, and the latest you will lose interest in her. She’ll leave work and your new secretary, women at parties (not yours, you’re not having more), in bars, at business meetings, in restaurants, friends’ wives, will want what you are although you’re not defined and you’re not a sellable truth, a containable story, a tellable joke, easy-to-understand, historically accurate, a plottable film or an edible meal. You’re an appetiser. Some people prefer those. Some people don’t order mains or desserts, they just want to pick and, if so, you’re perfect for that.
You leave when you want – work or family gatherings. You drink in the mornings. You sleep better than you did a decade ago. The people who knew you, closest, are dead now. You weren’t quick enough or self-less enough to save them. Your suits are cut to your frame which is almost the same as it was in the fifties, sixties. You’re an inch more maybe, and observers think that’s just an illusion, that actually, you’re not filling out as expectations would have you. You’re levelling off, millimetres from the perfect, so close to the ideal. But everything degenerates, even this, and you’re sitting in the moment it starts, trying to prolong it, not ready to take yourself out of the oven, because every cake you were ever a part of sunk in the centre.