Into the world from out of his room I blink in the light of day. Will I look back at his window? No. That’s done. If I turned around even the house might be gone. Let his soap kiss devolve into scum on my hand. Relinquish. Extinct it. Go. Hedge again. Road. Schools and railings. Train up on a rail bridge ahead. Cheap second-hand fridges lining the path. That turn’s where we were. My turn is right — so I would have found my way back, mid kebab salad gossamering to puke. Sun of the morning. London day. The banjaxed exhuming themselves from doorways. Buses and music. Spivs and Goths. New Age Travellers and leather coats and too-tight jeans and diamond whites. Everywhere heaves of fighting in the streets. This is the finest city I think and, no matter how awkward or bloodily, I am in it now too.
I go straight to hers. Good morning. Good night? Come in come in, we’re just woken up. Into her room and her fella stretched out asking So did you shag him or what? She Tea? and Sit! indicating the bed. I plomp back, maybe on his legs, and tell my tale. Well not all. Well some. Well anyway the bit about sleeping with him. She going I knew it! Him going Fuck! You do know who he is, right? And I don’t, but he does, so rings him in. Theatre mostly. The occasional film until that one last year had everyone raving! Now he’s the dog’s bollocks. Oh, is he? Yes! God you’re such a div! Then follows various smart-aleckings before tinkering for truths. What was he like in bed? What did he do? These I proffer as Transfigured Night, The Devils and filthy dishevel of bedsit. Incredulous they but sniff my palm for his soap. And I can still smell him on me under my clothes. Seeing him again? Probably not, no. Why? she says. I chuck forth an embroider and love my shape in its light: Why ruin a perfect night? Bravo! he bravo’s offering his joint which I slide down with, saying This is the life. Knowing that Yes it is.
Do you have to use my hot water up? I have to wash. Every day? Too much lady, too much. Get a shower, I think but keep to myself and wash my expedition away. Fare thee well purple foothills of sex. I clean a man off my body. I clean a man off my face. Lick from breasts. Spit between legs. The sweat and. Where mouths. Thigh dry blood what’s he. What? What is he doing now?
Up Lady Margaret Road in the wintering air. The trees and distance and closeness, the same. Evening, to you, town. Evening, to me. A little light think amid bus staunched breeze and he’s really only streets away. Somewhere over maybe there. Did he wash his sheets? Is he with someone else? Or his daughter? How he smoked his cigarettes. Three or four draws down to the tip, is that a telling thing? Back in my room I practise it. And smoke far on into the dark, until dawn goes white over Kentish Town Road, the Assembly House, the Forum and beyond to? Don’t know. All London then, I suppose.
We are rat tat pull and snigger. We are drinks and draggeldy home. I am chips and she’s pickled egg. Always for the tale and tale again. And it gets heavy with the lies I make but I like them. She does too. Thrown on the bed type three times come. Interlocked fingers or wrists held down. Why she doesn’t notice the new every time is beyond me. But I lie well. But not inside. That, unhitched, goes flail about. Wheedles its sticks into You let me down. Sorry, Mind says to Flesh. No matter no matter, get over — though Camden stays shoulder checked. Revoke that memory. Forget the face. Just be in on the joke. Part of the tease. These are not things barred to me any more. These are me as well. And the. But the. Fleadh wears down. Knees from kneeling. The time on my own, until my once becomes like not at all. This the lamest fun of lonely that she can drip feed to her Him. So the cigarette gets to like the leg. The arm wonders what it should do with itself. Nicks with a razor but then gets a band-aid for for fuck’s sake what are you at?
*
River run running to a northern sea. Thames. Needle skin brisk and the eyefuls of concrete. Lead by the. Strip for the. National Theatre. Go on. Get a ticket. Go in.
Here the vault and not Hawk’s Well. Smacks of the hell-less or at least of the sensible. I’d be. What I’d be. Is this the Olivier? Yeah, on upstairs for you. Through and oh to its canyon. I never saw so many chairs. On beyond uncurtained stage — You may take and have me, please. But Saturday matinee. Sole in my row. Where is everyone else?
In the dark comes spiders out of art and first I’m sleuthed away. Measuring up the vying worlds. Meandering into the emphasised words but under neat speeches are oceanous platitudes and so I slide and slide. Up. Don’t sleep. Don’t. You do not. Settle my head back on my neck but the veining of boring expands and contracts until I’m left to myself. And soon I’m judging a hupped toupee. Then predicting a spit trajectory. Right down, I’d say, to that redhead asleep. Too far from here though. Over there would be Over there ov is it? With black specs on? Really? such a dead cert knit, and for London. Him. Of course it is.
And the air makes whistles.
And my brain makes hay.
Guts to gorge. Look at him. Be sure? It is. oh god. But if I sit still. Live for the stage. Focus on the actors and glorious fake and. Look again is he looking at me? Read at the programme.
Then he definitely isn’t.
Then it’s the interval.
Look again. He gets up pray for poise. More as he excuses himself across. Yet more at my aisle. Please poise at my step. Hello, I thought it was you, he says and I remember and I remember and make some word like Hi. Enjoying it? Yes I. Really? he says I thought I saw you nodding off? I wasn’t it’s just my first time I mean you know I was looking around. He solemn nods but somewhere smiles So how have you been? I scaldcheek Fine and you? Fine, he says Coming out for a smoke? an unlit in his fingers. No, I No thanks, and go at reading biogs. like War and Peace. He loiters further but I am shame sealed. Well, I’ll leave you to it, he says Nice to see you again. You too, I say and don’t look up. Do not watch him climb the steps. Nor think at all Why were you rude? Only Bladder, why have you forsaken me now? Just wait til he’s gone, then go.
Right, stick on that nonchalant smile don’t buy an ice cream like a child and get what urbane I possess into line as I go back in. But at the bottom of the steps he’s all chat to some girl. Close and smiling. She giving laughs. Him too, or thoughtful, pushing his hair back. Gets kissed on the mouth too at the bell, and offered permutations of See you soon then, before he heads back to his row. And so what of it? What do I care? I am here for the Art.
And the dark swims over. And the play winds on.
In twenty minutes, he’s up again. Maybe leaving? Should I wave? No. Oh here. He crosses aisles instead, comes up to my row then drops in the seat beside. You pissed off with me? he asks, leaning his long self in. No, why would I be? Don’t know, that’s why I’m asking. Well I’m not, and glare at the stage. I had a good time the other night, he says I know it got a bit weird at the end but Don’t, I say Just don’t. Alright, with his eyes wandering down my face So let’s go. What? Let’s go, this show is shit and it’s not going to improve. It isn’t. It is, you liar, he says Come on, then gets up and leaves and I, for only trouble it seems, get up and go as well.
On the stairs down he says The designer’s a mate so I have to say a quick hello backstage but I won’t be long. Won’t he be offended you left? No, I made the effort, besides he said it was bad.
Bang out. Sky gone to winter but still fanfares of sun. I’ll just have a look at the books while you’re gone. Don’t wander off, he says. I shrug. No, I’ll be five minutes that’s all I mean it, don’t go home. But I turn on my heel. Into the book stalls and the so many books. What is he after? What am I up to? I think it’s called adventuring. So shuffle on in with the shufflers then lose myself in spines.