Tuesday, June 12, 2012
You have travelled so far to get here. You have driven down about 22 roads, up some stairs, down a hallway. You have passed through the streamers hanging from my door: colour and light of the saddest kind. They droop and resign themselves to the warm almost-breeze. You have climbed a ladder, tip toed through the sky, and now you are here with me. The roof is dirty and the sun is setting. It is a Thursday I think: a day that does not seem so relevant, which I am glad for. All of our days up until now have been nights, and all of our nights have been hijacked by event and circumstance. You brought beer. We can see everything from up here. You start to mumble something about that, the same thing I am thinking, but you cannot look at my eyes. Instead you are staring at my feet, which makes me self-conscious. I hate my feet. They curl inwards, hiding beneath my swollen ankles like scared children beneath their mother’s skirts. Flocks of birds pass through the wasted fig trees that almost engulf my house. They call to one another with their bright beaks, anxious and at a great pitch, trying to save the remainder of the day.