Swirling

The swallows are circling as if they know something, as if they have a point to make. But we lie lazily in the grass, contemplating them without paying any real attention. It’s hot, which saps our energy. And anyway, if we had any energy to spare, we’d use it to make sense of this conversation swirling around us, rather than those swallows in the sky. That much is evident. Well, tell me then, she persists, give me a concrete example. This must be my number one hated sentence in the world, which she should know by now but either doesn’t or chooses to ignore. She scrapes her hair off her face into what could become a pony tail if she’d remembered to bring an elastic. But it didn’t look as if it would get this hot when we set out, still full of optimism. So she didn’t, I suppose. Look at those swallows, I say, deciding to make use of them after all. They’re really something, aren’t they? But she’s not interested.

A Serious Question

Daddy, she says, and I can tell it’s going to be a serious question, she has on her serious face. Why are carrots orange? I can’t help a chuckle on the out breath and she eyes me suspiciously. I try to picture her, that exact expression, with a nose ring or whatever teenagers will be into ten years from now. I try to imagine her serious questions then, what they will be like and if she will still come to me to ask them. And I picture her ten years after that in a white dress, then berate myself for being such an old fashioned git. Because maybe she’ll have a live-in girlfriend, maybe she’ll go off into the world with nothing but a backpack. Maybe she’ll have experiences in life I know nothing about and won’t be able to guide her through. In fact, she probably will. Suddenly I feel an overwhelming rush of fear and inadequacy, wanting to save her from all of that. But who’s to say she’d want to be saved anyway? I look down at her impatient face, clearly wondering what’s taking me so long to answer a simple question, because don’t daddies know everything? I wonder briefly what explanation to go with. Carotene? She’s a little young for that. Or maybe I prefer to keep it that way, at least for now. Carrots are orange, I say, because they knew you like pink and they didn’t want to make you jealous.

Water Thoughts

Waterproofed and thickly insulated, I walk and watch my tears fall from the sky. Revisiting those small pockets of happiness, in a sea of anything but. They glow softly even now, giving off a gentle warmth. Words come to me like a waterfall. Or a fountain rather, recycled and repetitive –nothing I can say to make it right.

A Long Weekend

He drops his travel bag by his feet, though gently, he’s not one for the harshness of sudden moves. It’s red and oiled, or so he thinks of it. Plasticy, shiny material, he doesn’t know the word for it. A good sized travel bag, though often he leaves it half empty. He doesn’t usually take long trips and this one is a short one too, just a long weekend. It has a reason, supposedly, a purpose. But as he boards the train he’s not too sure about it. Truth be told, he no longer wants to go. His heart’s not in it. But he took the extra day off and so go he shall. It’s too depressing to stay in his room for days on end. He wants to change his life. It’s heartbreaking really, to watch life twist and turn, except in the one way you want it to. Wanting something so single-mindedly isn’t good for him, he knows this deep down somewhere. So he decided to focus on other things, such as a change of atmosphere. But he feels tired already. The doors start beeping and just as they’re about to close, a butterfly comes drifting in on a fickle current of air. Or was there a purpose there too, he wonders. Did it wake up and think, I know exactly what I want to do? Probably not, he guesses life is rarely that clear cut and sometimes things just happen. It floats this way and that, white and airy, seemingly not yet perturbed by its captivity. Or maybe it just knows that everything is temporary. Because at some point those doors are bound to open up again. With that he settles more comfortably into his chair and looks out at the flashing landscape, and decides to make the most of it.

One Of Those Kitchen Moments

It’s turned out to be one of those parties where the booze is too warm and the music too loud. Why am I even here, I wonder. Not to meet anyone, that’s for sure. I’ve had my fill of that,thank you. At least for a very long while. The lights are low and there are bunches of those Christmas lights that have become a must for do’s like this but that I find distasteful, not to mention a little bit passé and lacking of imagination. But who am I?

Who am I, now there’s a question. I’m the girl in the black dress standing by the fridge as if to keep it company. Not in order to have easy access to the alcohol because, as I’ve established, it’s not kept in there. It’s in the bathtub that was supposed to be filled with ice, but somebody forgot to buy it. Or didn’t buy enough. Still, no one is complaining, and neither am I because this way I have an isolated corner to sulk in. Then why go to a party? You may wonder. Why put on a black dress, which is also somewhat passé and lacking of imagination, but definitely a party dress. It’s so not me, actually. I’d have worn a deep pink one complete with tulle and loud swirling cherries pattern, if I had really been in a party mood. But then I thought, why bother? No one will get it anyway and you don’t need the extra attention, because that’s where the trouble starts.

The laughter is getting on my nerves like you wouldn’t believe, people having fun. Get a room!, is what I’m thinking. I haven’t always been such a Grinch. But I’m just not in the mood for life these days, or anything that smacks of it, like parties. Why the hell bother?

You look as though you’ve found the most interesting person here to talk to, a dark and handsome stranger says. And nods at the fridge and winks at me, which has a dazzling effect and I can feel my bad mood evaporating like milk on a hot plate. Or something like that, because I suppose milk would burn. You get the picture though. That’s what would happen if I were a romantic soul, and If I were here to meet someone. Which I’m not, I’m not I’m not. So I’ll thank you for not planting those Cinderella scenarios in my brain. Wow, I need to be saved, I think. Which in this day and age basically means I need a good fuck. How terrible, not being able to locate happiness outside the bounds of that shining armour. I lean my back against the fridge and fling my heels wherever they care to land. I’m not even in the mood to stomp off into the sunrise. So I sink down to the floor, because that’s what you do when your will gives out and your legs start to think, hey, why should we be the ones to do all the work?

Bad day, my roommate asks, or anyone asks, really. Anyone at all out there who notices that there was this girl here a while ago in a black dress, nothing fancy, a little boring really, but she’s not here now and I wonder where she got to? Because maybe she’s in one of those moods that could be a mood or could be her natural way of being, meaning it could last from a day to anywhere close to eternity. A mood where she needs to be rescued, because it requires too much effort to get up and go out there, and try to weasel herself into a conversation. The kind of socialising you only do for yourself really, just to have that feeling at the end of the night where you think, well, I didn’t feel like going out but I did and I’m glad because, what do you know, I actually ended up having a good time. Well, this girl’s not having a night like that. It could be a mix of factors really. A second too late, a minute too early, a boring person crossed instead of one that brings a sparkle to your eye and a giggle to your throat. And you’re off, you’re launched. But it didn’t happen. So this girl is sitting by the fridge, you could say she’s feeling sorry for herself, maybe that’s what it is. Or maybe everyone has the right to feel like this from time to time. Wishing someone would hand you something because you’re too tired to go out there and earn it.

My back’s against the hot fridge, and it has always struck me as weird actually, that it can be as hot outside as it is cool on the inside. And the sweat trickles down my backless dress, or rather my dress less back. My heels are somewhere across the room, actually one seems to have landed under the cupboard, I can see part of the strap poking out. I suddenly feel like taking off my earrings too because they’re hurting and frankly it’s not worth it. I unclasp them and slide them across the floor as well, aiming for that cupboard. I’ll find them there tomorrow, if I remember. If not, then maybe when we clean sometime. The music’s changed to Madonna’s greatest hits and I wonder for a moment who’s dancing, who’s standing on the sidelines criticising their moves, who’s kissing who on the sofa. Is it dawn yet, I wonder suddenly.  Because all I really want is for those people to get out of here so I can go to bed.