There you go, he says breathing hard and, quicker than I expect, pulls himself out. Straight off the bed and condom. Snap. Tossed at the bin. Bit of blood there, he says showing a streak on his palm. Then, all lank impassive, lifts an old bathrobe and goes on out the door.
I lie in the pain. Climb his cities of books. Hand between my legs. The wet, true, blood. So that’s done and something wrecked, what should I do next?
Where’s your toilet? I ask. End of the hall. Here take this, and he slips the robe off You never know who you’ll meet down there. No looking at me either, just for his underwear, and not finding, takes his trousers instead. And the toilet roll, you better take that too.
Murderous landing. TV lights on the floor. Go in. Hover. Piss and blood in the dark and wish I’d never have to face him again. Clothes though. Bag and girl aren’t you a woman — sore woman — now? But still.
I knock. Just come in. He is cigarette lit. Tap in a kettle. I couldn’t find the sink. No there isn’t one, use this, let me get out of your way. Strangers were and strangers again. He’s only over there but we are back in his wild room and I am vanished punished. My blood on his bed that he kicks the duvet over before making tea. Wash my face. I’d like to more but not so near. Redd out my knickers with the tights rolled in. Quick unpick and put them on. Bra. Dress. Thanks for the dressing gown. No problem, sugar? Actually, I’m going to head. And this the what turns him Do you know your way back? Sort of, I’ll find it. No I’ll walk you it’s late. You don’t need to. It’s not a big deal, I’ll get dressed. No, no, I Irish insist. Fuck’s sake, he says It’s after one and this is Saturday night in Camden. I’m not leaving you to wander about on your own, have the tea then we’ll go. And calm again as quick as he wasn’t but has kicked all the spit from my row. Alright. So clear off those books and sit, sugar? Please. Milk? Yes. Strindberg hits the floor and me his chair. He passes the tea, sits on the bed, lights then offers a cigarette and stares at the smoke between. All in the air though, new music What’s that? Schoenberg, he says Transfigured Night. Are you taking the piss? Certainly not, he laughs. But laughs. It’s beautiful, I say. Yeah I think it is, I often play it here when I’m by myself. So sit we. Separate. Years apart while the night turns itself, in his forty watt, into waste and into past. I tip tongue to questions but he is closed eyes and I know what I did. Here’s the room though, where done though. Remember everything. And I do not expect his Just stay — at the end — It’s so late you might as well. Hmm in my manners, and really still for a flee but it’s knackeredness overrules any thoughts of my blood on his sheet. Alright, I say. Standing up and lamp off.
He at the wall. I the edge. Back to. Sheet damp. Far light bleeds on the litter floor alongside. Gas bud glow. How long until he sleeps I wonder? And if he wonders that about me too? Him that done — stranger of a man who perfectly knows I have failed the perfect game. Where was stoicism? That much I’d relied upon but had not, in the end. Useless you are useless. Sting the eye and fill it up. He shifts. Don’t notice. Please not that. Then I abandon my eyes to keep heaves from my back. I almost hear his eyes scanning above. It’s alright, he says touching my arm. Adds no more or else to that, for which I am grateful, as soon after for his gentle snore.
Sometimes this night I sleep as well. Sometimes contrast my Was that usual? with I’m only the latest after all and maybe next time? Shut up. I’d turn but can’t because he lies there and how deep is his deep? So hours rise heeding curtains and the roustabout street below. Heels clacking, laughing You tight cunt! So if I am? I’m still waiting. Well you’ll wait a long time! Shrieking now, then laughing until wee wee all the way home. And sirens belting to, or speeding fro, like London’s alive in another time of its own. On towards five, banging at his door. Next one mate, he shouts until they go. Fucking Saturdays, he says back asleep before the weed smells or bottles bash in the street. But all this cheers me, picks me up. Slips me to my new world. If sleep would only come and against me, the long thin man. Alive. A-sleeping. In. And I drift in under where
She walks the tongue of the world, narrow as a road.
Far below where earth is and where fire goes.
Unrippled now.
Weeds.
Dry and frei.
But the weight of.
Banished poor famished eyes
lake music
Fuck!
Morning.
Fuck! he wakes like a scare. What? Sorry, I forgot you were there. And I lie by him. Shy by him. Sorry, he repeats but ingentle, unpersonal, prying himself cock from bottom, toe from sole. Sweat where he’s laid against me although the room burns cold. Christ I ache, he yawns This bed’s too fucking small for one never mind about two. Can I use your toilet? I ask. Yeah, you know the drill.
He is lovely indifferent when I come in. Leant on his desk. Steam and smoke wreathing. Cigarette? No thanks. Tea there, hot mind. Thanks. Sit and slurp. Are you alright? Fine. No, I meant after last night? Fine, I maintain for what can he want? Bulletins on bruising or how there’s still blood? I just, he says God I’m wrecked. Yawns it. Shears it. Bye to the night. I stare at his Chekhov but can’t help asking Who’s that? Who? The photo on your desk. That’s m my daughter. Oh, I say Are you married then? Does it look like I’m married? he laughs, offering the room. No but were you? No, what’s the time? Half eight. Shit! I’ve a meeting in town sorry to rush you but. Don’t worry I’ll just get dressed. He picks up the towel I used last night then makes on out the door. And I steal a look at his daughter up close. Like him I think. Eyes and mouth. Three? Four? Who knows how old children are? Sneak a drag on his fag. No. Get dressed before he’s back and you’ll be. shy. So to the end. Clothes again. Uncover his underpants but it was last night he looked for them. No matter. Old fag smoke against the new, I race my clothes back on.
Do you need the sink? No. Then I’ll have a shave. Dripping hair. Towel round his waist reaching for his fag in such one-track haste I’m an emptiness fastening her shoes. Button my coat. He lathers up. Well, good luck with your audition. Just a meeting — to the glass — But thanks and also for last night. You’re welcome, I say. He smiles to my reflection then starts to shave. And I wish that I was someone else, a girl with words behind her face, not this one done up like a stone in herself. You won’t see him ever again. Fuck it, this, and all anyway. Before I can’t, I go wrap my arms round his waist and say, nose into his damp shoulder blades Thank you for not being a bastard last night for being kind to me. Silence. He and. I. Have I bad chanced? Peek round his shoulder but in the mirror his eyes take up mine, most surprised. Gentle of day forgetting the night. That’s alright, he says, touching my fingers to his mouth Thank you for choosing me. Then, self-disgust over-running my everything else, I grab my bag and leave.