It’s not like Sunday yet either and. Sunday is not worth the price.
*
Monday. Is every eye knowing? Hers, even in fun? Everyone now appraised of the edges I cannot make to round? Worst he says Are you alright? and How fucking drunk were you Saturday night? Lying by the sin of my teeth I’m fine, and Sorry, I’d forgotten to eat. No worries, you were hilarious, totally out of it, he says. And so I wish that he was dead. And I wish that I was dead but neither of these deep wishes come to be, or are true.
Pick a scene for two. Twentieth century’s best. Two scenes per class so fifteen minutes max. Put a list on the board. We’ll start in two weeks so you’ve no excuse for showing up unprepared.
She nods. I do. Any ideas? No. Will I ask my Him about it? Your who? You know — scutter us then down to the toilets for such squeals as required by a lovebit neck. God he’s lovely and a Third Year too so he knows what’s what and he didn’t go home until this morning, imagine, I can hardly stand up! Lipstick on the tile and the wall above and Hussy! I know but oh I’m in love and I think he might be The One. Purple bang of left right in my chest. Good for the gossip but bad for the friendship. Now weekends’ll be for giddy-up on her bed while I. Ah fuck. Ah so.
In the week though.
I smell the coffee, the gravy granule, always is to me. See it in its thick white cup, stub and quick to disappoint, a pleasure surely for only grown-ups? Ah. Concentrate everyone please. Make its hot spread in my hand — tolerates thumb, intolerant palm — disdaining to demonstrate like others around who prick fingers and tssst tongue to teeth. Instead I bear — as I would in life, and maybe private too. Good you’re not faking but feel its weight. Don’t fake weigh so. No. See myself sat on her floor, cup in my hand, hoping my Drop of milk? didn’t offend. Feeling it sag in its burn while I wait — careful now — mind her carpet. Her back from the kitchen saying Sorry it’s finished, and the whole roasting load to down. Its smell in my face. Crick in my neck. What would I not do to please my new friend so. Raise it to your mouth. I suffer it up and. Don’t pretend to choke, that’s the worst hamming up. True too, for I swallowed it really. Alright folks, let’s call it a day.
And for some weeks.
I play a game of walk, up Lady Margaret Road. Still inside, when the eyes reach focus. Here garden walls. Here starker trees. Adhering to my footfall but inured to the leaves and the rattle-tattle skip-up they suggest. It is forward and only. Nothing else. Thigh to ankle making tread in the light night, or the early day, no more in my body beyond its moving me. To have slipped it, purely. To go up so high. Witness all these windows from which I hide in my red coat. In my black boots. These are worth the going through of sirens and of rain. They torture me with comfort in these weekends on my own; spewing sheen on the matt of this longed-for life that’s becoming lived alone. Why am I. Why am I not. Where’s even the way to could? I’m not lost. Or not lost much. Lonely. It is that and I don’t know what to do.
So I move. Cars move. And it’s almost life. City operating on my mind. Here’s to be, even if not quite right. But not long before the fun begins.
Ninety I it, the afternoon we’re set to rehearse. Necessity prising her Saturday to, for we’ve lines to learn but. He’s moving flat too so. Come in and on to the neat peace of her room that soon dwindles to laze on her floor. Scripts and buns. Coffee. Tea. Lullish the sun through a scant cherry tree threading meek in and out of the blow. Her though, finickity. Is something wrong? We had a fight, he stormed off. What happened? Who knows? Some fucking man stuff. All I said was Should I expect you back this evening? Sounds reasonable. Well, so you’d think, but the next minute he’s shouting You don’t own me and slamming the door and. Fuck him, I say shit. Pause she, then Sally Bowles Yeah I already did! And I spit laugh. Cross-eyed, she adds, cross-eyed herself. Oh Jesus you’re terrible. Well that’s not what he said! Then I’m into the kink and she falls in too. What a fuck-up. Which? Him or you? Both! Ah don’t worry, he’ll be back in the end. Probably something mournful between his legs, it’s just, you know, don’t be a dick. Or at least not until dick’s appropriate. That’s it! And laughing to the guts, floor, we stretch endly out. Cherry shadowing the ceiling, bowstrung then upright. I wish I could be more like you, she says You’re so independent, especially about men. I let the nice lie slip settle against and wonder how I might make it fit? Or is it possible to say I don’t work properly, without giving away anything else? Instead I sigh I don’t know, I wouldn’t mind more sex. She crack claps Well then, so you should! Let’s get Piss Off by Chekhov done and dusted, then I’ll do your make-up and we’ll go for a dance down the Palace, what d’you think? That maybe your frilly valance put him off? Oh shut up, that’s my mother, are you up for it? Alright, but these Beats first though? Yes. Hurray!
Drink time. She makes me. Curls my hair. Mascaras and sticks me but does say Nice dress while I smoke and feign how much I don’t care that she thinks I could do with the help. It is us though, and exciting, setting off for Camden Town, clipping quick into the buzz around. We being young here and so we can. And fuck him for not calling. And who knows I. I might. But won’t. But still. It’s a tad early for the Palace now, let’s stop here for a drink.
Old boy I’d say and awful Irish. Royal College Street. Space though and I’m not mad for the heave. She goes to the bar. I get us a seat. Marlboro Lights and lagers and we with some gossip. Not much of it kind. And after only one she’s fidgeting over maybe she should call because, you know, perhaps he has and. Don’t you dare, just wait him out. I’ll get us another then we’ll set off down. Weeeelllll, she reluctants Okay.
Squeeze at the bar thinking Don’t let her call, give me the night out. Drum my fingers. And stop, so the barmaid won’t think it’s at her. Hurry up but. Then she does and I order and see, any moment, that cigarette will spill. On my hand too — if its smoker isn’t careful — and that blink minute, very second, it does. Ow! I Ow! though really not hurt and its owner goes Shit! Are you alright? long fingers flick dusting ash into my coat while I — circumstantially too close — blush Fine. I didn’t burn you? No. Good sorry about that — and book indicating — Bit too engrossed. Ah you really shouldn’t do that, you know. What, read? Fold it back, it’ll break the spine. It was broke when I bought it, but he straightens it out and I go The Devils? That’s right, just at the end. The confession? You know it? ‘I killed God’. Impressive. Why? No reason, you just don’t look the kind. Oh? Boobs too big? Hair too blonde? Jesus! his eyes wide and laughing Not at all, I only meant that you look kind of young. What does that mean? muttering a fuck at the puce I’ve gone. Nothing, I just thought all the kids were into lightness and being, I apologise, I didn’t mean to offend. Well I’ve read that too and. Want a cigarette? No I should get this back to my friend and. I’m going to finish off these last few pages, he says But after that, as reparation, can I buy you a drink? I doubt we’ll still be here. But if you are? Well we’ll see. Then we’ll see, he smiles into his Penguin Dostoyevsky and I mortify my way back to her.