Difficult to Explain

She's ditched the purple overcoat and her work ponytail. She didn't have to. She's beautiful either way, but the man she wants to meet tonight isn't as accommodating or nice or accommodating or loving or accommodating as me. She won’t take him back tonight, but he'll try it. She's such a fucking slut, she's so cute like that.

It's approaching fast. I'm a playful amount of dangerous. I’m a sheet of cling film in a swimming pool. A pin among spaghetti to tear throats. The thought makes me smile. The light bounces purposefully off my jacket in the exact way it's meant to. I'm the single most spottable human on this high street, she's the most anonymous.

Yet, she stands out.

Necks crane and flop to rubber in her wake. The less courteous heads drop and swivel. Lips loosen, then pull wide, then pucker, then whistle, then pull wide again, then talk shit. I'm the most visible and the least present, she's the opposite. It's difficult to explain.

The darker it gets, the wider my smile. The dimmer the lights, the happier the skip. The louder the revellers in the bars that bookend my alleys and cobbled closes, the better I can laugh from deep in my chest.

She's just up ahead now, it wasn't even a date. It couldn't have been. He doesn't know how to kiss her – not like the way dead Kevin or limp Alan or blind Jason did, with one hand on her hip and the other on her face – and certainly NOT the way Tony or Greg did, with their anonymous, sinful, exploratory tongues laying siege to her beautiful mouth.





About me

This is me: home-writer, book-reader, dog-lover and occasional poet. I make this website to share my and my friends texts with You, dear Reader. Please: read carefully, don't be scary, upgrade your mood and be king and leave your comment. :)