Rambling

‘That I can see’, she said with a vague hint of annoyance in her voice, that made me blush, even though I knew – strangely – that I didn’t have to be scared of her.

She holds the teapot menacingly over my cup, and pours me a gin and tonic.

She is wearing the most delicate of dresses, one which doesn’t quite reach floor. This leaves her feet bare and vulnerable to the cold floor, and the occasional spilt drink which splashes around her ankles.

The cigarette in her mouth flicks ash across the table every time she tries to speak.

‘I think we should live in Kent’ she says, ‘That’s where my mother was from’,

‘I’m not moving to fucking Kent’ I say, ‘Besides, I thought you told me she was from Ireland?’

She winces as she gets smoke in her eye, but gets her hand caught in her waist long matted hair when she tries to waft it away.

‘She was, I think’ she murmurs, before wandering over the bookshelf and picking up a aged, framed photo of a daft looking woman in a bright flowery dress, with green stockings and a red felt hat.

‘Her name was Karen’,

‘Karen’, I repeat insistently, ‘I know’,

and the door bell rings.

Its so bright inside that it looks like summer, but as our visitor walks in he is covered in snow.

He pulls his scarf from his neck, and shakes his hair. The snow from his boots has begun to melt into patches of water which darken the carpet where he stands. This I observe with annoyance.

Soon he stomps over, dropping himself into an armchair and pulling his boots off.

‘Terrible weather out there’ he exclaims,

‘So I can see’ I hiss back, and grab my cup, draining its contents hungrily.

I sign to her to pour me another and stand to leave the room, slopping half of it down my trouser leg.

‘I’m going out’ I say,

and leave them to their games.

I pull my jacket on, and slip out the front door.

The crunch of my foot onto the snowy front step reminds me why I had been hiding inside in the first place, I swear and trudge down the path towards the gate.

A single glance back to the house and I remember what its like to be outside, and away from there. As comfortable as it is inside, the light is misleading, and the gin romanticises any sobering tastes of reality you have.

This snow – on the other hand – reminds me of where I am, and who I am.

I perch on the gate for a while and light a cigarette.

No one is walking past, there is no one to watch.

The wood of the gate feels solid underneath me, but cold. The feeling of being slightly off balance mildly comforts me.

I could get up and walk and walk.

But sitting here with the house behind me, and the snow around me, I’m remembering the days when I had no idea of what honesty was.

(Now of course, I have an idea of it, just one I chose to ignore)

This is not a recent development. <spa

n style=”mso-spacerun: yes”> I’m not sure if I’m fooling myself or others.

It feels like I could scream into this eternal, snowy landscape and hear it echo back. Hear all its own pains and screams returned to me in the ricochet of my own noise.

I feel my cigarette but start to burn my fingers, and when I look down to drop it a huge orange centipede is looking back up at me.

He cant get himself to climb up the gate, he doesn’t seem to have any eyes.

Even so I wont bring myself to touch him, and so I watch him struggle.

The rising sense of panic in me starts to make me sweat.

I cant wait to get away from this bug, but that would mean stepping over it, which I also cant bring myself to do.

So I drop my tea cup over it, swing my legs over the gate, and walk back inside.

I walk straight past the living room, and drag myself up the stairs.

A hot bath is the key to this, I think.