Thursday, 5 June 2014

On Envy

She doesn’t understand anything. She thinks everything can be easy and glitter and drunk forever; she wants to be his holiday. She doesn’t understand that in the real world there are responsibilities. Prescriptions. Sodden pillows. Jam jars smashed against the wall, Branston Pickle spattering the floor.
    She has never been the one to scream, mascara-damp and blotchy, “Well if she’s so great then why don’t you just fuck her?” She keeps her screaming for fairground rides; she is forever tottering around in neon; and I hate her.
    I hate her because she’s cheating. We don’t all have the option to be the fireman’s pole—some of us are stairs, there are different ways to get places—and I hate her.
    She hands him a fistful of giggles to remind him that I’ve stopped laughing. She touches his fingers to remind him my own hands are fists.
    I know no one can be like this all the time, that around him she is a woman holding her stomach in for photographs, except instead of her stomach she is holding in all of the bad parts of herself: the scowls, the snipes, the hatred.
    I hope that as soon as she is on her own in a room they explode out of her, covering the carpet in thick brown chunks.

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