It was a double-take eye catch. I almost missed you. But, instead, I bravely made the kiss move, to European greet you, and you reciprocated. We said a wow and are you busy? And you weren’t, despite history. So we left the DVD shop I don’t think you’d be in really. What were you, buying one of your own Blu-rays or something?
Next was a series of saves, legendary dolphin Jesus moves, which only princes in movies make. And to wake was the disappointment of truth-telling Santa, 50p tooth fairy pieces in my mother’s hands, the pillow puff-crease next to me.
You know which door
Location – suspect and actual
Any retrievable, curable thing
Is a slip-grasp
And the stack-’em
Are learnt lessons
And paper tricks
Not needed in this job
So give me
I envied every chameleon with a wig change or outfit designed by some supposed celebrity designer although stitching clothes together never struck me as a forward facing career but it is now. And high school girls swapped dye bottles weekly but I kept my hair colour ’til I was 28 and it was an awkward give up, devoid of all the right moves.
I’d morph selectively, pick roles with the tenacity of Tom Cruise, absolutely in control of a destiny I was ready for, that I could taste like the food from the next tent over at a festival with something else frying in front of me: pasties or frites or paella.
At the top, criticism rolls off but people expect private property to be operative like the game Operation, and first takes stomach, and next claims eyes. But I don’t want pieces. I’m still interested in decisions. And you’re impeccable at them.
We were at a bar. It wasn’t Cocktail but when I say that Tom Cruise and I were in a bar everyone will just think Cocktail. I didn’t know what he wanted me to say but it was something. I’ve seen that glass-eyed sigh on other men but no-one’s profile ever looked so good.
I said, any told-you-so didn’t cut it and I’d never say that because there were reasons he didn’t pick me, then, when he picked her and those reasons would probably stand now. Probably.
His smile was Jack’s pre-apocalypse, Jared Leto in My So-Called Life, that guy whose name I’ve tried to forget since I first heard it but haven’t even since Facebook deleting.
He asked, “What if I’m wrong?” and I asked, “Was wrong?” and he said, “Is. Was. Almost.” And the moment to lean in, prompt, was undercut with absence which is the absolute wrong impression on which to start something.
Later, he defended me when my family were risked, troubled, taken, or trapped and I woke up reeling; Fourth wife, fourth wife, fourth wife.
This week, you can also find me on Northern Spirit’s blog, A Wondrous Place, collaborating with Jake Campbell about all things Newcastle. And there’s still time to vote for July 2061 under ‘Best Writing’ in the Blog North Awards. Kisses and Tom Cruise movies for everyone! x
My sister reminds me on holiday I’d take roadkill pictures, that’d end up blurry, a self-censor, because the after’s not something you can capture. Not explainable, adequate or photogenic.
Then, death was a make-believe marvel that Bible stories disproved or made points of, and it was an other person place which the pocket of my stomach was yet to inhabit. Similarly, I’d take fairground rides, awe-full, off-peak to queue skip, without bolts and seat-fittings invading eyespace. And if dad said it was okay it was okay.
And my bravery is a moment push now, a fluttery seat belt turbulence, in which I sometime regret analysing Genesis, John, Jude, with a graduate skepticism, until close-read passages were unworkable poems evidenced as undo, don’t do, did.
There’s solace in the nothing. But where does the skin go?
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 will pluck me from obscurity sure that my gun handling abilities are above par, on par, almost par, and you’ll mould me the way I did dough, and bread and gluten-free spaghetti (stealthily unbendable, non-pliable, even when wet).
And I will break up, break with, and I’ll take in all sorts of literature and I’ll explain, in a zombie apocalypse I’m exactly the person to know.
I’m a person you should know, okay? You say you know, it’s why you picked me. But I can’t help thinking all action is really inaction, and that there’s no other earth to compare us to, no mirrors, and no reason, and what we think we’re altering’s only a construct that isn’t there anyway. A hypothetical, invention. Like freedom, you know?