streams of melancholy consciousness

Typing on keyboard. Quiet Sunday afternoon. Minding my own business. Movie on low in background. Doorphone rings. Pick up. You’re shitting me. Beating heart. Cannot stop shaking. Walking towards my door. Fuck. I don’t have concealer on. My hair looks like a recently sodomised badger. Open door. Run away. Come back. Wheel bike into hallway. Exchange belongings. Make small talk. Leave him in lounge. Fetch his CD from car. Did I get his letter? (Affirmative.) Can I rip the CD before he takes it? Fuck, cannot rip his CD - shaking too much. He fiddles with my settings. Has to rip it onto the PC in my room.

Bed unmade. Dildo on side table. Clothes and shoes everywhere.

I ooh and ah over posters. Small talk. Let him out. Lock gate. Iron bars in between. Stops. Asks if I think he made the right decision. (How am I supposed to know? Because I can read your noggin? It was your decision, now claim it.) “Probably, yes.” Tries to talk to me. To explain. “I know I’ve forfeited the chance to stay close to you.” Correct. We won’t be double dating together soon, no, ‘fraid not. “I’m sure you’ve kissed a lot of people.” A few. Nothing serious. I hope you’re not too scared one day to fall in love, because I think you were scared. (Although I don’t want to know if you’re sewing your wild oats all over town either. I don’t ask.) “Yes, I was scared.” And perhaps you are a little immature. “Yes I maybe do need to grow up.” Back to the small talk. “Still planning to go overseas?” Perhaps, we’ll see. Starts off with a question then resides saying it’s not his place to ask. (Just fucking ask it! What do you have to lose at this point?) Shrug.

Steel bars. Silence. Only Mrs Abdul’s birds chirping rather loudly in the passage.

Both just stand. Stare ahead. “If you really loved me, why did you have to unleash your anger - I’ve never done that before.” With all due respect, you’ve never been in love. So you won’t understand. Unlock gate. Let him back in.

Living room. Movie still on in background. Period drama.

Make tea. On my suggestion. Forgets how he takes his cuppa. Two sugars. Shaking. Calming down. Small talk. Heavy talk. Am nonchalant. Show no emotion. Am deliberate, frank, don’t say too much. Am stronger than I think, handling it. Am also dead inside. But hurt and anger move beneath the deadness with a heavy pressure. Still wears the same shoes. Abruptly stand up.

Walk to door. Usher him through. Well have a nice life. Lock gate.

Panic. Walk outside. See him sitting in car on sidewalk. Hasn’t driven away yet. Cross street. Don’t look back. Drives away. Recross road when he’s out of sight. Enter gate. Lock it. Prepare to hang up posters. A four foot tall Marilyn Monroe above my bed. And a spare one in the hallway. One or two Liechtenstein’s.

Can’t find the fucking Prestik.

I don’t cry. Make tea. Rooibos. Listen to my previously borrowed CD. Be sad. Am empty. Not a bad empty, an empty that’s ok with being empty. It’s finally over. I never have a reason to see him again. Unless unplanned like last Friday or at the Durban July. It’s crowded place right?