Blacked out

...Kurt feeds me a double Jack to convince me to be his wingman and I spend what seems like twenty minutes trying but failing to chat up the tarty-looking twin of a tarty-looking blonde in a short silver skirt that sparkles in the lights pulsing blues and reds and whites but it turns out it’s a mirror the whole time.

…later explains that I made for an entertaining and effective ice-breaker babbling incoherently at a wall.

…wondered why he was interested in the ugly one…

~-~-~

…can only see in black and white as I look at me very much not myself in the mirror and my face divided by shadow is a two dimensional ink silhouette on paper when it gushes grey at my reflection fizzing from my mouth while my stomach ties in knots.

…tiny icebergs float on froth on the glass shelf past HMS toothbrush towards the soap cliffs.

…shocked and disgusted at myself as I pick them up and swallow them again.

…waste not want not…

~-~-~

…sandpaper scratches down my windpipe and splits breaking into bronchial fractals lighting up my lungs.

…it burns at my soul.

…it’s what breathing was made for…

~-~-~

…Saul rides his metal steed with Viking fervour, he bellows, he laughs, he shakes his fist at the gods, he takes on the world and now I am aboard, clinging onto this cage while its wheels chatter maniacally beneath us.

…Kurt and Phil, clattering to our right, judder wildly, pirouette slowly, lose control, tumble, turn over, Kurt emptying out across tarmac while Phil spreads across their stolen ride.

…watching them, not where we’re going, we hit kerb and are catapulted across pavement into bushes.

…laughing and laughing and laughing and laughing and laughing and laughing…

~-~-~

…ill-conceived opinions and bad jokes and meandering stories and clever jokes and poor impressions and raucous jokes and heated arguments and sincere apologies and protracted explanations and emotional agreements.

…and jokes, they swirl colours around us, drawing lines connecting us, winding round us, passing back and forth between us.

…every problem is solved, everyone is alright, every face is smiles, every soul is aglow, everything is forgotten…

~-~-~

…watch the distant echoing screams of stars millions of years gone past drown out in the choral majesty of dawn.

…watch the blacks bleed out through greys.

…watch the blues as they warm the sickly pallor of corpse skin to a rich royal sea.

…watch clouds play out their anthropomorphic theatre.

~-~-~

“Are you alright?” a soft Welsh accent asks me.

A black cut-out, the shape of a woman with her hands in her pockets, prints onto the sky.

I blink. Squeeze my eyes tight shut 'til colours burst against the inside of my eyelids, and open them to squint up at this person breaking my reverie.

“Mmm?”

“Are you alright? You weren’t moving.”

“Yhhhhmmffnn,” I clear my throat, swallow, and try again. “Yeah, I’m fine.” I flex my limbs lightly against the grass, shuffle a little, settle myself again and I smile warmly. “Just, you know, relaxing for a minute. Enjoying the sun. Why?”

“Sorry,” she says as her shadow falls across my eyes and I can see her clearly, her sharp features and angular frame, her green eyes glittering behind glass. “Just, you know, you hadn’t moved or anything since I’ve been here and I’ve been here an hour now.”

I don’t say anything; I’m just looking up at her, looking in her eyes. Blinking slowly. Comprehending what she’s just told me. I shuffle up onto my elbows and look around.

I’m in the botanical gardens.

“An hour?”

“Yeah. Nearly.”

A few people are dotted around. Some of them are eating sandwiches.

“Is it lunchtime?”

“How long have you been lying there?” she says looking down at me and my dishevelled clothes; looking down on me, with a slight smile.

“I’m not exactly sure,” I tell her. “What day is it?”

She laughs.

She helps me up and even steadies me when I wobble. We walk together down the slope and out the gates, down Thompson Road and cross Ecclesall at the lights, which change in our favour as we reach them.

“You shouldn’t smoke,” she says.

I hadn’t realised I was. My hands had acted with a will of their own, had found a packet I didn’t know I had, had found a lighter, had acted in cahoots with my mouth, and I was smoking. I held it out in front of me, watched it burn. I looked down at the empty pack still in my hand.

“Ooops.”

She pinches it from between my fingers and takes a long drag, holds it.

“Aaah…” she sighs out smoke. “Don’t worry, I shouldn’t either.”

We share it as we walk along Ecclesall. We turn left at Nonnas café, leaving the bustle of the main street behind us, still passing it back and forth. Left again onto Sharrow Vale Road, it’s burned down to the filter and we stand outside her work.

“What’s your name?” she asks.

“Ray,” I say. “Call me Ray. What’s yours?”

She tells me.

But I won’t remember.

Easter weekend

Good Friday. It doesn't seem so good. And really, it means very little to somebody brought up outside mainstream religion. However, it brings a four day weekend with it.

But it seems like I must be the only one that doesn't feel like celebrating that fact. Four days with no plans is far too much time for introspection and wallowing in self pity. At least work, mind-numbing as it is, would keep me occupied and my thoughts away from her.

We were due to go away together this weekend. Tickets had been booked and hotel rooms reserved. Nothing much, just a simple trip to the coast, a quick getaway, with its promises of sunset walks along the beach, of paddling in rock pools, of candy floss and sticks of rock, of sleeping late and staying in bed, our naked bodies intertwined.

It's depressing. A reminder of what was, what could have been and now, what never will.

And I miss her.

So I resolve to spend my weekend questing for oblivion. I call Kurt and arrange to meet up with him. Him, and his bandmates, and their assorted hangers-on. Some of the wild kids of Sheffield. Still in their teens or early twenties. People that seem instinctively to know the hot spots, the late night parties, the drug peddlers.

Mid-afternoon, I meet Kurt in the Palm Tree Inn in Walkley, round the back, in the beer garden, in the sunshine, where they can all smoke. I try to ignore it but every single cigarette looks mighty tasty to me.

Kurt stands, fag hanging from his lips, and takes my hand in a firm handshake before introducing me to everyone in a barrage of names that I know I haven't a hope of remembering. A few of them are familiar, including Richard, Sara's fella, and a scrawny bloke with a large nose called Marcus, both of whom I've met before on several occasions. The others I will have to get by with calling them 'dude' or 'mate' and I hope they won't mind.

We drink, we talk, we laugh. Eventually we raise our hands in salute, clutching fistfuls of pharmaceuticals, and we say goodbye to all rational thought.

I dive off the deep end and I hope I shan't resurface 'til this terrible holiday is over.

Another morning, another couch

I wake up to the familiar sizzling sound of frying. My head pounds and my stomach gurgles. I almost drown on my own saliva. I struggle upright, my spine cracking at every move. I have a terrible crick in my neck that I try to cure by twisting my head in the other direction but succeed only in making it hurt on the opposite side.

I get up and shuffle to the kitchen. Annie is there in a fluffy pink dressing gown and matching fluffy pink slippers. She has a pan on the hob and a wooden spatula in her hand.

“Good morning, sunshine!” she says.

“Morning," I rub the sleep from my eyes. "What time is it?” I croak.

“Almost half seven. I was gonna let you have a lie-in. But I need you out. I’ve about seven hours ‘til the full moon and I’ve got so much to get done before then,” she says. “Including getting your manimal stink out of that blanket,” she adds, waving her spatula at the blanket wrapped around me.

“That’s fine. I’ve gotta go to work in a couple of hours and I should really shave and change my clothes first.”

“Breakfast first!” she declares. “Bacon and scrambled egg and toast!”

Behind her the toaster regurgitates bread, now transformed, crisped and burned black, back to the world.

“No beans though. All gone. Laurel loves beans. Don't you, hun?"

Laurel remains silent and glares at me from her chair in the corner.

"Morning, Laurel," I say but elicit no response.

"Ignore her," says Annie. "She's in a mood." She dishes out a couple of rashers of crispy bacon and a large spoonful of eggs onto a plate and hands it to me. "Enjoy!"

Fed and happy, with a large, new crystal sitting in my jacket pocket, I strike out into the grey and dreary Thursday waiting for me outside.

In the middle of the night

During the night, I stir. Or rather something stirs me - a touch on my chest…. cool… skin on skin… - and I open my eyes.

Annie's living room is dark but for the moonlight from above and the orange sodium glow of the city from below, filtered through tie-dyed curtains. I lay on the sofa, blanket draped over, covering me from my belly to my feet.

Annie stands over me. Completely naked. What little light seeps through the drapes glistens on the edges of her gentle curves. In her hand she holds a glass of water. She looks down at me thoughtfully.

"Annie…?" I say sluggishy, still half asleep.

"You don't have to talk to me about it, Pynch," she says quietly but seriously, in a voice softer than silk.

She bends forward and reaches down to me. I am very aware that, beneath the blanket Annie has leant me, I am quite naked, save for a pair of grey jockey shorts. I try to keep my eyes reined in, focused on Annie's, and not roaming freely across her body.

She traces a fingertip across the raised lines on my chest. No longer red, at least not in this light, and healing slowly. Her touch tickles but I don't laugh.

"You don't have to talk about it," she says again. "But you should have mentioned it."

"Sorry…" I mumble. "Do you know what they are?" I ask.

She shakes her head slowly, sadly. "No," she says. "But it looks familiar." She stands again, a concerned frown painted across her delicate features. She gives me a small smile and tells me to go back to sleep. She pads from the room and sleep quickly takes me back.

Lil Annie - Part 4

After ten minutes I find myself idly flicking through an old copy of Heat magazine.

After twenty the wine bottle is almost entirely empty. I squint down at the magazine. The text is blurry. Something about a Lindsey Lohan.

Potent. Annie told me so.

After forty minutes she’s done and she starts talking to me again and I’m already slumped across the sofa. She berates me for drinking all the wine and I smile up at her but have trouble organising words into a coherent sentence.

She walks a circle around the room, turning on a couple of lamps, extinguishing the candles. Then she goes and gets another bottle, and refills her glass.

She doesn’t share it. Quite right.

She sits next to me on the sofa, knees tucked up in front of her. She’s bright, like a supernova burns inside her, a golden shimmer surrounds her, emanates from her, and her eyes sparkle.

She’s often like this afterwards.

We talk rubbish to each other for a while. We laugh at each other’s jokes. She holds my hand, gives it a squeeze. Like old friends. Like past lovers.

Just talking.

And then she asks me about her.

I ask her to drop it.

She does, but the atmosphere has changed. The glimmer has gone.

I apologise and she nods. Then frowns and shakes her head. “No,” she says. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t’ve asked. I’m sorry. I just… If there’s anything I can do to help… please… let me know.”

I tell her I will. And have to assure her twice.

“Do you want to have sex?” she asks, quite matter-of-factly.

I laugh. Honestly, I forget how open Annie is. Polyamory does not even begin to cover it. She often shares herself physically with those she loves, simply as an extension of that love. It was something I couldn’t deal with when we met… when we grew to be friends… when we grew to be more… I was too monogamous to handle it. I wanted it all or I wanted nothing. I blame society.

The sex was amazing though.

“Thank you,” I tell her. “But it really wouldn’t help.” An expression that could almost be mistaken for disappointment flickers across her face and is gone.

I ask about Laurel and she becomes bright again.

“I love her so much,” she tells me, “that sometimes I feel like my heart could explode.”

She tells me every little detail. She's never been happier than since Laurel entered her life and she gets up and whirls around the room, her enthusiasm spinning her like a top.

I don't mind. It makes me smile to watch her, beautiful little Annie, chattering away, her beaming smile lighting up the room like the sunrise come early.

She even shares some more of her wine with me.

Lil Annie - Part 3

Annie starts by the small television in the corner of the room, using the lighter to add flame to a half-used candle sat by the side of the telly. Then she crosses to the opposite corner, to a bookcase so jammed with books that the wood has given up and the whole structure leans drunkenly, only the books themselves hold the case up and together. Melted to the edge of the third shelf down is another candle. She lights it and circles anti-clockwise around the room to the window where she lights another. She comes over to the small side table next to the end of the couch and picks up a candle that's toppled over. She waves the lighter under the end of candle to soften the wax, then she plants it firmly on the table and lights it. Then back to the window where she lights two more. She walks clockwise once round the room ending up back next to the television where she pauses.

"Shit," she mutters. She looks at me and whispers, "Can you just toss me a candle? There should be a box of them in the drawer." She points at the end table.

"I thought you said I couldn't move?" I whisper back.

"Don't be a smartarse," she says. "Do you want this done or not?"

I shut my mouth and grab a candle from the drawer, toss it over to her. She lights it and plants it on the other side of the telly before releasing the trigger on the lighter and letting the flame finally die, its children twinkling from around the room.

Annie steps to the centre and sits cross-legged in front of the gathered materials. She picks up one of the bottles, a small one with a red oil inside, and pulls the stopper. She lets a few drops fall into the bowl. She selects a tall bottle with a transparent green liquid inside and she pours a generous amount. She picks up the bag of leaves and opens it, takes a pinch from within and crumbles it in. Another bottle, this one bulbous, with a long neck. Inside, another liquid, viscous and dark. Another bottle, short and stout. Another liquid, bright and quick. And then she takes the dry stems in both hands and breaks them over the top. She folds the pieces over and breaks them again. And finally she takes up the lighter, clicks it to life once more, and touches it to the mixture.

I flinch away. The blaze is momentarily brighter than the sun but leaves no retinal afterglow, as though it never happened.

I look back to Annie, her eyes closed, her hands resting lightly on her knees. Her lips move silently, her eyes flicker behind their lids. In front of her burns an invisible fire that shivers the air, twists it, a heat haze ripple hovering over the bowl. Around the room, the candles genuflect to Annie.

I drink wine and watch.

Lil Annie - Part 2

Annie kneels on the rug, sits back on her heels, and listens intently while I tell her what I need. She swirls the brown-tinted liquid in her glass, breathes it in. She does not take her eyes off me. She looks me in the eye, face frozen, expressionless, and does not blink. She sips her wine thoughtfully.

"Alright," she says and rocks backwards up onto her feet in one smooth motion. She crosses the room to a small pirates’ treasure chest, flips the latch and lifts the lid, starts rummaging inside with one hand, the other still holding her glass. "Only cos it's you. You're a big boy. Grown up enough to know what you're doing. Anybody else asked me I'd tell them to piss off."

"I can't tell you how much that means to me. To be patronised by someone so wise… so young…" I say with a smirk.

Annie stops dead and glares at me, points at me with the hand holding her glass. "Or you can just piss off anyway?"

I apologise and, with a sniff, she goes back to hunting through the contents of the chest. Eventually she finds what she's looking for and produces a small metal bowl, which she places on the floor next to her. I watch her get up and walk over to a shoe box on her sideboard which she opens and takes out several dried plant stems and a plastic bag filled with shredded leaves.

"Back in a minute," she says and puts her glass down on the sideboard before vanishing off to the kitchen again. I wait patiently, pour myself some more of Annie's homemade spiced tea wine, and settle back on the sofa. I watch the multi-coloured wind chimes spinning in her window in the fading light of early evening.

She comes back in with a selection of bottles, various shapes, sizes and coloured liquids. She gathers everything together in the middle of the room, pushing the stack of books, magazines and papers off to the side, and arranges them in front of her, spread out in a semi-circle around the bowl. "Do you like the wine?" she asks while shuffling the items around.

"It's very pleasant," I tell her and she smiles modestly.

“It’s quite potent too. Go steady.”

I snort.

“Seriously, Pynch. I know you. Drink it slow.” She darts back into the kitchen and returns with a long wand lighter. "Right," she says and waves the point of the lighter at me like the conductor of an orchestra. "You have to shut up and stay very still for a minute."

I mime locking my lips closed and I throw away the key.

She holds the lighter between her teeth while she grabs handfuls of her wild, dark hair and bunches it together, tying it back. Then she takes the lighter in hand again, clicks it again and again 'til eventually the spark becomes a flame. She takes a deep breath… slowly… in… then out.