Monday, 11 November 2013

It's fine

She stands in the kitchen and says it is fine, it’s all fine. And no matter who in the world thinks her a fool (because, make no mistake, the girl is a fool, with cherries beneath her tongue and all the trouble in the universe tucked behind her ears), she is right. Everything is. All the things that happened are on a plane so distant that her ears are no longer strong enough to catch their sound. The things that happened can communicate only by smoke signal now, and their small purple flames haven’t the heat to scar her skin.

She stands in the kitchen and she is drunk and speeding with this revelation. She wants to careen off the walls telling them it’s fine (whap/bam) it’s fine (crash/doosh) it’s fine (bang/wallop). Instead, she picks the one who needs to hear it. She would like to talk quickly and tell him everything: about the city hall, about girls, about the thumbprint bruises on the inside of her wrists, but she doesn’t know how they got there, any of them.

The girl wants to scrabble her paws up and down his arms like ferrets. She wants to be lying back in a bubblebath with her legs in the air, kicking furiously and turning the air to a soapy snowstorm. She wants wrestling and tickling and biting: the silliest of human contact. She wants to go back years, to a point before seriousness, when everything was turquoise potential and the holy goof. She doesn’t want to go anywhere because every moment made her this.

In another city, her life reclines like a fat tabby, purring and licking its feet. There is the real world, the serious real world, the world of storytelling and cellos and champagne. The world of afternoon escapism and so much skin behind doors. Here is not her real life; here is a holiday on a boat where she can swoop and play, then flee before the hour of other pumpkins, before the sun is high in the sky.

In this city, she is standing in the kitchen and she tells him it’s fine and suddenly everything is. All the half-filled sacks of grain she has been hefting around for years thud and spill on the floor. Everything is so light and lovely that for a moment she almost wants to fall in love with him all over again, just to get to this point. Almost. Just to stir the universe’s soup.

But this time round she is smarter and sillier all at once, so she presses her thumbs on his wrists and promises him all the things she has no right to promise. It’s going to get easier, you have no idea, it’s going to get so good you will barely be able to breathe. She is laughing. It’s all fine, she says. She isn’t laughing at him. Mainly, she is laughing at herself.

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