this is the beginning of something i will write into a novel. if the subject of the novel finds it and gets angry i’d like to send him the following message: “hello! i miss you, but only a little. mostly i am angry. also, go listen to sharyn van witten give out, and arctic monkeys why’d you only call me when you’re high? and fuck off or jerk off thinking about me. i’d take that. send pics.”
We circle each other, always ready and never really wanting. Or really wanting and knowing better. Wanting so badly and wanting more and to never see each other again. I smelled his scent by the harbour yesterday and stopped. It was a father, playing with a daughter on the pelican-shaped rocker. If that’s a sign then everything is.
I texted him at 10pm, knowing that sooner or later I would so it may as well be sooner. “D-floor debauchery at Fever?” He was keen, of course. He replied with a photo: the edge of a plate with a bumpy line, white on white. “Yep.”
I watched the coloured lights flying over my dress, I was happy. I threw my arms up and swayed. I caught the eye of a guy in a blue shirt. He stopped me with a hand on my shoulder. “You’re beautiful.” I smiled thank you and brushed past. I felt for my phone in my bag. He was outside. I held the railing and took each stair on bambi legs, thinking of stability, of a yacht weighed down by an anchor.
“We were doing so well,” he said, laughing.
“We beat on, boats against the current,” I said. But he just threw the door open and put his lips on mine.