You are terrified of growing old and having things sag;
I am terrified of growing old and saggy without you.
The Destroyess
A destroyer of hopes and dreams – even her own.
She set out to ruin everyone (and everything) she was jealous of.
Her mission accomplished, she soon found there was no one and nothing left but herself.
Painted Nails
Today was painting my nails day. The first time, actually. I found that it helped me remember you. I thought of your hands, your soft hands today – actually, I think about your soft hands every day. From there, I searched and searched in your box of potions and accessories, until I found the perfect colour – deep, dark blue. It’s the one I remember you wearing the most; the colour jumping off your skin; you holding my hand, my brown skin against your white skin, and that blue – that Sapphire Blue – tying everything together.
It took me several tries to get my nails right. I was at it for at least two hours. But finally, I was happy with the final result. I know this is going to sound weird, but looking at my nails, studying how the paint changed my hand, made me feel, well, sexy. I looked in the mirror at my hands and just couldn’t stop looking. I felt like a new person.
After all the effort, I desperately wanted to show off my nails. I head out to see mum, I know she will appreciate this new me.
‘Hmmmm.’ For fuck’s sake, I’ve spent hours doing my nails, and all I get is a ‘hmmmm’?
‘So, what else do you think?’
‘Well, it’s a bit bright,’ she says with a flat tone, in both her voice and face.
‘Mum, it’s dark blue. Sapphire Blue, to be exact. Since when is Sapphire Blue a bright colour?’
‘You ask me what I think, and then you give me hassle when I tell you what I think. My 43-year-old son.’
‘44 mum.’ She always gets my age wrong. I think she does it on purpose.
‘Hush! My 43-year-old son, walks in with his nails painted a bright blue, and he’s giving me hassle because I don’t like it?’
She had a point, I had to admit.
‘I know that’s the colour Janine wore, but David, the colour just isn’t…you.’ We both laugh at that. Mum had her moments when she could be serious, but thankfully it was not very often.
‘So how you holding up?’
‘Fine, I guess. Some days I wake up knowing that’s she’s gone. Other days, I slip back into not believing it’s true. Those are probably the worse days.’
‘And the therapy, is it helping?’
‘Yeah, I guess so.’ I dare not tell her that I’m on antidepressants. That on top of the painted nails would make her worry a lot more than she should.
‘And was the painting your nails bright blue, his idea?’ Mum’s chuckling. ‘Hey, hey, hey, go in there and let’s see what dad says about it.’
She’s such a naughty woman.
Dour Dad, that’s what we call him. Sometimes I look at him and wonder how on earth did he managed to bag mum, let alone have three kids. I mean, no child should imagine their parents having sex, but I just look at him and wonder, how did we happen? How?! He’s sitting in front of the telly, watching a programme that he will no doubt complain about, shouting to mum, giving her blow-by-blow updates of what he’s watching. And mum, the silly muppet, plays along with it. Half the time when she talks about something she’s seen on telly, you find out that she’s not watched one second of it, she’s just recounting Dour Dad’s ramblings.
‘Hey dad’, I said as I sat, next to him on the settee.
‘Hey son, good seeing you. How’s it going?’
‘All going good dad. All going good.’ Dad is not the sort of guy you share your feelings with. I know mum will fill him in on how I’m really going later.
‘Good son, good.’
Three commercials come and go, and we sit in silence. Dad switches over to BBC iPlayer.
‘What are you going watch?’
‘Some rubbish on Panorama. It’s on best-up TV.’
‘I think you mean catch-up TV.’
‘Oh, is it? Well, it will be rubbish anyway.’
I stifle my laugh when I realise that it’s about Thai Lady Boys.
‘See told ya. Just a load of old rubbish. I don’t know what’s happened with the BBC, they will air anything these days.’ Dad finally clocks my finger nails. ‘Hey son, you been painting? You still got some paint on your hands. I think we have some white spirit in the kitchen. Thabie, David has some dark blue paint on his hand. Can you find the white spirit for him?
‘You mean, bright blue dear. Yes, I saw that the minute he walked. I’ll think he’ll be fine for the moment. What’s on the telly?’
‘Something about Thai Lady Boys.’
‘Oooh, sounds interesting you’ll have fill me as it goes along.’
And there is my cue to exit.
As I walk into the kitchen mum says, ‘15 minutes. It took him 15 minutes to realise you have ‘paint on your hands.’
****
I had a dream about you. I was lying on the bed and was holding someone’s arm. I couldn’t see the face or the body, just the arm. It was just there, and I was holding it. And then I heard a voice, a male voice. He asked me, what colour nail polish are you wearing? I looked at my hand to respond, and that’s when I realised that it was your arm I was holding. I gripped it with all my might. I didn’t want to let go. And I kept kissing your hand, over and over, as I gripped you even tighter. I just lay there not wanting that moment to end. But something woke me up. Some sound woke me up, and you were gone. I had you for 5 minutes. For 5 whole minutes, you were real. I tried to fall back asleep. I wanted to find you again. But today is meant to be one of those days; I wake up knowing you are gone.
Eternity
You told me you will love me forever,
which scares me.
Forever, will never be an eternity.
Efficiency
The porn industry would benefit from having lessons in efficiency – they take 2 hours to do what I can do in 2 minutes
The Drama Queen
The Drama Queen…
When your Crown of Thorns turns out to be nothing more than a branch of a tree.
My Silent Words
My words are silent.
Try as you might, you cannot hear them,
that is their strength.
Like Ninjas in the night,
you don’t hear them coming,
but you know when they have arrived.
My words are silent.
They do not shout down the street, or come with a siren, or bell,
they trickle down the page,
performing tricks, entertaining you.
Now you see them, now you don’t.
My words are silent.
You will not find them on your volume button.
My words are silent,
but you will hear them all the same.
King
With each kiss, I expect you to turn this old toad, into a Prince.
But with each kiss, I become a King.
The Marriage Certificate
‘Fuck off and don’t come back!’
I think that’s what she shouted. Or is it ‘don’t come back and fuck off’? Whichever it was, she bellows it each morning.
At lunchtime, always at 1pm precisely, she stands in front of my window, crazed, and yapping some undecipherable rubbish. Today, and for the past couple months, it has been ‘go home, no one wants you here!’
And as for my dinners, I get ‘you’ll only be lonely if you stay here.’ And in that regard, she’s right, my dinnertime, for the past two years have been pretty lonely. She’s seen to that.
Looking at her through the window, I see her face contorted, dripping drool from the corner of her mouth, her eyes, ruby-pink with rage. I’m not sure what I have done to get her in such as state – although I could rattle-off the many things I did for her. But that is not going to answer the question of why she hellbent on whatever she is hellbent on – getting me to leave? or getting me stay? I don’t know. It’s all too strange and bizarre. What I do know is that she works like a clock. Tick, tick, tick.
I once tried to talk to her. But you cannot make much sense of a person, who, finger-pointing at you, says over and over again, ‘J’accuse, j’accuse. Je jure, je jure.’ No, she is not French. No, she has never studied French. Maybe she read Zola?
To make matters worse, for me at least, I work from home – as a writer (yes, I know, terribly clichéd) – allowing her to deliver her walk-by missives whenever she wants. I found that eventually, you get used to it – I had no choice. She integrated herself and became part of my daily routine, which I’m sure was part of her plan. She clings. She clings to me every day. Each day starts and ends, starts and ends with her on my mind. If she cannot not move on, neither can I. If I could not move on, neither would she. We are married. Married, without a marriage certificate.
About a year ago, I travelled, thinking I would have some respite from her daily onslaught. And on said travels, I met someone – which, dare I say, was the point of going travelling. We go back to my hotel, back to my room. But her presence was now firmly planted in my mind. No matter where I went, her voice was still there.
We kiss; I hear her voice.
‘Go home’.
We take our clothes off.
‘No one wants you here.’
We have sex.
‘You’ll be lonely.’
If she could not move on, neither could I. If I could not move on, neither would she.
A friend suggested I should call-in the police to file a complaint of harassment; that she needed to hit rock-bottom and maybe if I helped her to hit rock-bottom, I could be the one to help her rise. I personally thought she needed therapy, or a hug – both of which I could not, nor wanted, to provide.
I eventually called-in the police, relieved that, for once and for all, it was going to be resolved. I watched, from the window. As she spoke with the police, her demeanour crazed, and mad as ever. After about 15 minutes of taking to her, she walked away. ‘It’s over,’ I thought. When the police officers finally came to speak with me, they said, ‘Sir, there is nothing we can do. Just forget about her, as much as you can, move on with your life.’
That was six months ago, and not much has changed since then. She still marks my mornings, my lunchtimes, and my dinnertimes. And while I have chosen to move on with my life, we are still married, married without a marriage certificate.
Sliced Bread
Telling someone with Celiac Disease that they are the best thing since slice bread is not romantic…apparently.