the things you say 2

20111128 The things you say 2

You say, come. Come on then.
 
I am there.
 
We sit, a seeming motley crew around a farmhouse table.  We do not know one another, may have met once or twice, may not.  It feels like a kitchen, big table there in the middle of the room, but the edges do not house sinks, cookers, dryers, dollies or pans, black bottomed hanging from hooks on the walls, from the ceiling.  There is no scent of cooking.  No homely feel. No feel at all, not really.
 
You sit to the side, away from the table. We all have eyes upon you.  You are late, you are scruffy, you chew gum like you're deep in anphetamine heaven, cocaine, crack pipe, furious chewing.  You roll the gum around in your mouth.  You chew as you speak, half chew half words tumbling out, hasty, still so hasty.  I think, he is pissed.  He has recently been pissed.  He is melting. Pissed porous.  It is assumption, conjecture, bollocks.  I build a fandango around you.  Up eh? Up late eh? Partying? Talking? Learning and sharing with wine? Deep into the night? Which ends where?  Haphazard fallen, entwined, you and who? Sheet wrapped around a leg, across an abdomen, cranky discomfort of the mis fit.  Fumbled fuck. Hasty fuck. Cocaine come down fuelled fuck. Heave to hammer out those hovering demons. Salt spunk sweat sheets. Wet sheets. Warped sheets. Did you take out your gum?
 
You are speaking, mouth moving.  Gum rolling around, out it falls, one miscalculation and out it falls, slipping through your lips, to the side, plop, it drops down and I swear that your hand moves to meet it, eyes unflinching, you grasp and return it, barely moving, hardly noticing, back whence it came. As though it never happened. 
 
Cow eyes lure me in. You have no idea. 
 
I raise my nose a tad, like a hare, catching the air, breathing in sharp scent of you. Leaf mould, hot skin gone cold, metallic filings and sand ground into denim. 
 
You skip as you walk. It is not obvious, but I see it.
 
You rush and race.
 
I want to say, stop.
 
We leave the room.  You are gone. I search the vicinity for a glimpse of you. But you are gone.
 
The sun is burning down on us all.  It is late in the year, but the sun harbours deep fury and pours it out, unrelenting.  I sit with one other on a bench in the square. I long for the shadows, but can't move to them.  It is too complex.  I feel sweat run in streams down my back. My skin is wet to touch. I am clammy.  I want water. I want shade. It is all too complex. I sit, hatless and let the sun do its worst.
 
You come by, stand in front of me, shade apparent.  I have dark glasses on my eyes. They could melt in this heat if left unprotected. You stop, still. No skip, no haste, but a posture even in stopped mode that says 'I am on my way'. I look at you. You speak to me. I am unclear what you have said. I want to be funny and vibrant and clever.  I want to be witty, appealing, alluring. I want you to like me, to want me, to love me.  'Yes' I say in response to a question.  And then you are gone.
 
Later, a place becomes vacant at a table and I move myself langourously from here to there.  The table is deep in the shadow. My dress is damp. The alluminium chair is cold on my legs on my arse. Damp cold dress. I want to ask questions about you, to you, of you, but you are gone.