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.