I’ve got more numbers than usual to make this week. There’s been a backlog because I’m in love. This morning I want to go for a jog. It helps clear my head when I’m short on time. But you walk in just as I’m getting into my running shorts. I don’t realise you have your own key. I don’t realise you can do that with your tongue. What’s the harm in going one more day without exercise? I decide to take the day off work as well. The numbers can wait.
I love you, even with your smoker’s cough. Even though, when you wake, you greet your bronchial deposits before you greet me. That’s okay, because you have the most perfect smiling eyes. And you lie like royalty on my morning bedspread, the dusty light across your useless legs. And after you’ve finished your first cigarette, you kiss me, urgently and desperately. These could be your last breaths, after all.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
HINDRANCE : TWO
We’re sitting in the park, the way young people in love are supposed to. There may be ducks and breadcrumbs or wine and chequered blankets or even raindrops and tandem bikes. If there is, I don’t see them. Just me on a bench and you sitting next to me. The air seems newer than usual.
Later we have sex. That’s all there is to it. Like the word—short and sharp. No tender moments or lingering glances.
You say, We both know it’s useless to pretend it’s something more. And most likely I’ll be thinking of someone else.
You are very businesslike. You even give me a receipt when you’re done. You’re so sexy when you’re invoicing.
When I ask you about your life, you say you were born in a place with a hospital, grew up in a place with a family, were sent to a place with teachers, and then went to a place with money. You drive a Mercedes. I assume you have a job, although you never seem to work. You always put your arms around me before I can ask you anything you don’t want to answer.
Later we have sex. That’s all there is to it. Like the word—short and sharp. No tender moments or lingering glances.
You say, We both know it’s useless to pretend it’s something more. And most likely I’ll be thinking of someone else.
You are very businesslike. You even give me a receipt when you’re done. You’re so sexy when you’re invoicing.
When I ask you about your life, you say you were born in a place with a hospital, grew up in a place with a family, were sent to a place with teachers, and then went to a place with money. You drive a Mercedes. I assume you have a job, although you never seem to work. You always put your arms around me before I can ask you anything you don’t want to answer.
Monday, December 1, 2008
HINDRANCE : ONE
I work with numbers. That’s what I do. Some people count them, some juggle them, others crunch them or study them; I make them. The finest numbers money can buy. You know that really nice house at the end of the street, with just the right amount of renovation and perfect modern lines? You know how it’s got that fantastic number on the front gate? I made that. Brass or silver or gold or whatever you want, I’ll make it for you. People often ask, Isn’t that a bit specialised? or, Yeah, but what else do you do? These people haven’t seen the numbers I make. There’s a certain feeling that comes with shaping metal with your hands. Hard to describe.
A car pulls up outside my shop. A Mercedes. Tinted windows, chrome everything, and a body so black that when light sees it coming, it looks the other way. I am well on my way to wishing the owner a life of bird shit and dwindling brake fluid when you step out of the driver’s side. Well, you hobble out, supported by two walking canes. To the boot, where you pull out a fold-up wheelchair. You wheel your way towards me.
I’m a heartless bastard, I think. I’m a heartless, cynical, awful bastard. I open the door for you.
You say something like, Thank you.
And I probably reply, It’s no problem.
You ask about the number 34, and its possible combination with others. I begin to like you more and more as the seconds go by.
These numbers are lovely, you say.
That’s what people usually say, I answer.
What do you call this one?
Eight.
I thought I’d seen it somewhere before.
It’s on the Library, in town, between the two and the six.
I never knew this shop was here before.
It sneaks up on you, doesn’t it?
A car pulls up outside my shop. A Mercedes. Tinted windows, chrome everything, and a body so black that when light sees it coming, it looks the other way. I am well on my way to wishing the owner a life of bird shit and dwindling brake fluid when you step out of the driver’s side. Well, you hobble out, supported by two walking canes. To the boot, where you pull out a fold-up wheelchair. You wheel your way towards me.
I’m a heartless bastard, I think. I’m a heartless, cynical, awful bastard. I open the door for you.
You say something like, Thank you.
And I probably reply, It’s no problem.
You ask about the number 34, and its possible combination with others. I begin to like you more and more as the seconds go by.
These numbers are lovely, you say.
That’s what people usually say, I answer.
What do you call this one?
Eight.
I thought I’d seen it somewhere before.
It’s on the Library, in town, between the two and the six.
I never knew this shop was here before.
It sneaks up on you, doesn’t it?
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