Lori Grimes

I wanted this character dead since I met her, put bets on her dying, said end of season two, first episode season three at the latest, but I lost both. Jack said, “You’re wrong, they won’t kill her,” but the denomination he was raised in didn’t dwell on death marks like mine did, all of them, Evangelical, Baptist, Catholic. I could see the shadow like badly applied liner, foundation gathering in skin folds, dry from the lack of butter.

I was sure that once all tenuous ties were umbilical clipped – crudely – and who she’d fucked and hadn’t fucked and fucked at the exact right time and lied, was inconsequential as siblings set loose into other dictatorships, she’d expire like margarine, quicker than you think, actually.

And Jack was the hope cutter, before incisions, saying, “She dies anyway, in the comics,” and the teetering of the will or won’t, and any pre-wrought shock was instead eventuality.

Three episodes off, I was right, and Jack just won’t except that. He’s steel when it comes to board games.


Regrets Collect Like Old Friends

Jack says, “It’s too much to expect rationality at the end of the world,” and I say, “That’s all I’d want actually,” and he replies, “Faced with some flesh eating mouth your decisions would snap quicker than well worn bra straps to the touch of a moderately attractive man,” and I tell him, “The last time someone tried to ping underwear I was wearing, I deleted them,” and Jack says, “Facebook, what a burn,” and I say, “No,” snap my fingers meaning vanished or vanquished, whichever is stronger, and Jack says, “Yeah, yeah, but I still don’t agree about Shane,” and I wish he’d agree to disagree about it but Jack wants issues smoothed out like discussion has the same properties as a steamer, a rolling pin or tyre.

In the third nightmare, no-one’s been invited and we’re waiting and it’s not a nightmare at all because I always choose private over performance, would prefer to keep vows secret, not have to stand in heels on stone for hours. After the rings are forced on to our fingers I say, “Shane was right, every single time, and I’d sacrifice someone if it meant you, and I’d lie if it got you home, and I’d make it all obvious, do what I could to force you to admit that our feelings were thicker than the top layer of a sticky toffee pudding, and I’d find a piece of myself at the edge of your mouth, buried beneath a newly formed layer of skin on your lips, and I’d make sure you’d smelt me and you couldn’t forget, and you’d wake up eventually knowing that every action that seemed callous, every sentence that felt heavy, was an attempt, and I’d never run out of them.”