You say it’s all we have. Not us but, like, everyone. There’s no actual god, just these moments of total coincidence which make our feet rock and stomachs scrunch like cellophane wrap, which tie us. We’re tied like turkeys with string.
I’m cautiously superstitious, if a person can be, total doubter, holding on to the tiniest hint there’s sparkle in chaotic disorder. Because all I’ve got is chaos, when you think about it. I’ve been trying to memory foam sink in it, but it isn’t working. The turmoil doesn’t get easy. It’s steady like water pressure: occasional tweaks make it work better.
This lady read my mind earlier. From small sentences, knew where I wanted to be, what I might do, that I was in ____. And I wanted to believe Serendipity badly. The movie. That crossed paths meant something. But I could never take it seriously. And star signs, drilled like religion, practically the brain blemishes, identifiable as fucked-up-ness. Who cares what compatible is?
If coincidences really mean something, what about dreams? Books don’t know, and the internet’s a misinformation plethora, But I want to know what my dreams mean. Because last night it was everyday, and everyone overreacted, but it was us and it was okay. And you held my hand momentarily. You took it. And I want you to keep on doing that. Would you do that again, please?
When everyone else is dead, let’s Facetime, forget that they mattered once, and the week long crush, that might have been a month, won’t become a regret now they’re gone, and the miles that matter to us are inflicted moves that graduate, completion and win, committ, and I’d pour credit into petrol if it meant we were seconds closer than four hours, that didn’t involve trucks and trains.
My face is a rectangle bed stick, like sleeping together, this is.
Jack says, “Only idiots leave,” so I leave to prove his theory or disprove it – just to see the look on his face.
He calls three days later to ask when I’m coming home. He calls once on my mobile, once on my landline, and I say, “I have a landline number and you found out about it. It’s been three days. Doesn’t that say that I’m serious?”
But Jack says brick’s not serious, metal is, and he’s prepared with a selection of metals, stones, solids, if I bring my case back, my bones home.
Second time around, or however many times it is now, I’m weighed by the weight of his convincing, bribes. I consider the lines ringing, digits being dialled and the people dialling them, but mostly it’s just wrong numbers, accidents, people you don’t know from Adam West.
Jack asks why I’m with him, why we’re together. I tell him there aren’t rules, formulas, structures like songs have, stories, determining what we do, why we do things. Some people hope that there are, buy into law-making, omnipotent forces telling us rights and wrongs, but really it’s only us now, and who’s to say the decision I made he hated was altogether wrong?
“You have an opinion,” I tell him, “and I respect that, but that’ s all that it is – opinion – and what I do is my prerogative.”
He tells me I’ve got the wrong attitude. We sleep next to each other for the first time in three weeks and in the morning, he kisses me when we wake, habit overriding, making him forget what I did, why he’s mad. In ten years will we even remember?
Knowing which secrets to keep and which to give up is hard. Once you’ve said it, told, it’s the ruined potential of a friendship when you just had to fuck her, or hyped films, TV shows you see before anybody because of the time difference and enjoy the power and have a big mouth.
She forgives you because there is no-one for you. Every chance you blew and not in the positive sense, if there is one. Even her sister you shed like ill-fitting skin and she’s seasonal. You’re not eating enough to keep clothes on, sleeping to stay alert at work. You should be winning now. Instead you’re a knocked jar. The glass is intact but the uncooked pasta, the M & M’s spill.