the things you say. part 11.

The things you say. Part 11

The others crowd around, backs to me, rugby scrum style. They speak, as I hear them, in monosyllables. I recognise that they are from a different place to me, lesser somehow, more lowly, less clever. It is ok. I am glad to see their backs, the back of them, time is too short to waste on the undeserving.

In my room, so white it reflects back on itself in a never ending circle, cycle of reflection, eternal, in my room I notice the wrapping has been undone. You gave me one day, in a dark secret place, out of earshot out of eye shot, you gave me an individually wrapped square of darkest chocolate. A cactus chocolate, I may have mentioned it. The wrapper, crisp, with greens and cerise, scarlet and plum. A prickly wrapper. Have a chocolate you said, and handed it to me. Just to me. I looked at it, there in the palm of my hand for a while. Pretty thing, I thought. I looked up skywards, towards your face, your mouth, and saw you had eaten one of the individually wrapped squares yourself. Chocolate in your mouth, pooling at the corners as you sucked on it, absent minded and still, as always ready to move in an inkling, poised to dash away. Oh stay I thought just stay. Futile thoughts, impossible thoughts, you could not stay, you simply could not. And neither for that matter could I. You and I there, together, it would be odd, after a while, it would seem odd to onlookers, to the others.

I take my precious gift and place it, a token, a charm, I place it under my pillow. It is not you, but of you. See? You gave it to me, to me. I flickered in your thoughts right then, and you considered me, thought of me, gave to me. Fed me. You fed me.

Today, white on white on white, in the gleaming I see, clearly, the flash of ripe colour, set off against the blue white of sheet of counter pane. I rush forward. The crisp individual package is ripped open. The morsel absent. Stillness freezes me and only my eyes flicker and move and register. Taking in the room, seeking other traces. There, in the glass half full, half empty, at the bedside, on the floor, at the bedside, beside other glasses half full, half empty, full empty of water that I place there and leave there as comfort over days over weeks because the act the sheer act of stooping to move them is tiresome the mere thought that I may need to act in such a way, a 'move the fucking glasses of water' way, is exhausting in the extreme and after the thought the tiresome, exhausting overwhelming thought, the act is impossible implausible unthinkable. They gather, a tribe of transparency nursing nectar in their midst, protecting nectar in their midst, sweet taken for granted water, sweet water drink from heaven, precious gift. Ah, as I was saying, there, in the depths of one glass, settled and melting at the bottom, sticking to the glass in a goo is my chocolate. My chocolate. Your chocolate given to me and made mine.

The others. One or another of the others will have done this. Snuck into this room that is mine. I can lock it but I don't I don't want to why should I? Ah. They are like that I think to myself, full of bitterness, mean ness, sharp desire to take and to keep and to ruin and to blame.

I am fine. See. It is just a thing. A ruined thing, yes, but the act, the act of being given to, of being thought of one day, that they can never take away.

I discard the wrapper. I throw it, careless, into the bin. No need no need.

I have in my pocket, hid deep, with the fluff and the pine needles six small stones. I found them all. They are smooth and round the colour of bone. They may be bone. They could be.

I have no dice. I have one envelope with my name writ large, one paper aeroplane right wing hand crumpled, no chocolate or wrapper. I have bursts and moments, mine, all mine to keep and wrap around my heart. I have stones, six. I am the dice man in female form. All present and correct and bursting to splitting with hot life. The stone bones are my dice. Just one. All that I need. I will shake them all six in my hand, I will cast them up, inches above my open palm, I will turn my hand over, rapidly, so rapidly. Whatever does land upon the back of my hand, whatever number of stone bones lie there, so shall they be the voice of the dice. All evens, a date, all odds, arranged marriage. Although, as the day has progressed I have thought that this second option may seem too strange a proposal, even for one of my own, a fellow, a tribesman of my tribe.

Still, the dice man did rape willy nilly, and this seems less odd than that. Let it stay, let it stay. Option two will remain. Hurrah.

I place the stone bones into my palm, I shake and shake and they rattle, tickle. I am a girl, just a small girl, sat on the pavement, hot concrete against my legs, grit making me itch, sun on my head. I have jacks in my hand, small metal crosses, how I love them and my ball, small bouncy ball. I shake the jacks in my palm, I cast them randomly across the floor. I bounce the ball and pick up one and then catch the ball. Seamless. All ten collected, I bounce and grab two and two and two and then three and four up to ten. Bounce and collect before the ball lands again. Bounce grab catch bounce grab catch.

I cast the stones upward. Once I could catch ten shiny jacks on the back of my hand. When I grow up I will be a famous jacks player. I will i will. People will flock far and wide near and far to amaze at my skill my ability my panache. I will wow them with talent extraordinaire.

I flip my hand, palm floorward. The stones tumble down. I feel the soft thud as some land just there. My eyes I realise are closed. Closed tight. It is the memory of child me my belief my hope it is crushing, crushing. I peep, one eye, then two. Oh look. Oh look I have caught four stone bones on the back of my hand. Oh look at them there. So fitted. So fine. so caught, so four, so even. So it is a date.