Oh that was a nasty moment. Cigarette smoke in my hair from I don’t know where caught in my throat. The scent put water in my mouth, gave me a jab in the pit of my belly. I wanted suddenly to force my tongue into someone’s mouth and clip their teeth with mine. A sudden impulse that contrasts badly with my job. Digging my fingers into black denim jeans and shoving them hard onto my messy bed.
I would be horrified with myself if I weren’t getting used to missing my lover. I’d hate to imagine what I’d be like if I were the sort to listen to my body. Yes, I agree, knowing when to eat would be a bonus, but it’s enough deterrent watching hormones surge once a month. “Hey – kiss him!” and my brain replying, “WTF? Piss off! You’re insane.” Right there, yeah. I like having that two steps back from the physical. No wonder Mishka always thinks I’m strange. She’s plugged into hers. Her advice is wonderful in that it never wavers, as soon as the mention of desire comes up, it’s “You’re too complicated. I don’t understand. Jump his bones”. Reminds me of a page from I Feel Sick. Jhonen’s charactor Devi is ranting at her friend for always giving the same advice no matter what the problem. “I’m being attacked by killer bees!” “You should get out more!!”
My roommate is off in Toronto this weekend. Soft instrumental music drifting from the speakers and it’s so quiet that I can hear my silver pocketwatch ticking from the bedside table. My mind paints an image of standing on the tops of cliffs and staring over green sea, palely foamed with whitecaps, or better – sitting in a train, like I haven’t done since I was a child. Riding clickaclack clickaclack over the prairies, complete darkness inside the carriage, the only rare illumination when the highway veered closer to the tracks. Trainride lit by stars. I want that feeling, like outside is water instead of air. A mental picture of running my fingers down the cool glass and watching it ripple. I’m older. Letters and words shining lightly into focus in the soft quiet of the car. Being sent a picture from around the globe and laughing quietly delighted to myself as it shines against the ocean of sunless ink. “Oh darling, you’re aging well. Italy is good for you, I’ll be seeing you soon.” The image shifts, turning into his reply and I lean forward in the red plush seat to examine the painting he’s working on now. It’s a girl, with type setting lines all over her body in old style Arial. Antiquidated and it meshes well with her blocky computer key fingernails. Lights off and riding in the dark. Lights off and I love you. Click.
