128. Static

I awake in the sun on a kitchen floor in a flat above a shop beside a girl I don’t know and I feel fine.
I get up off the floor and put my share of the thin blanket over her thin shoulder and I fill the kettle and as the water boils I look out of the window at a neglected park filled with crocuses and I half wonder where I am.
The kettle boils. I make tea in a mug black one sugar and I sip at steam and look at the girl and I try to remember who she is what we had done what we will do.
The other doors in the flat lead to other rooms other people.
They are silent.
I can hear morning traffic outside.
I suddenly fill with energy a happy static that makes my cock pulse in my jeans and makes my hair crackle and I wonder if I should wake the girl and fuck her but I don’t know her name which can sometimes be awkward and besides one of the other doors might open and I will be there naked in the warm morning sunshine resplendent fucking in the kitchen while the owner of the flat tries to make toast and polite conversation as i maintain my thrusting rhythm so I don’t wake the girl and instead I lazily rub my cock through my jeans and sip my tea.
Blue skies soft clouds warm sunshine damp tarmac yellow purple crocuses. Fritz Lang posters bong in the corner knackered couch cheese plant record collection five types of tea spice rack thin girl thin blanket half bottle of Lamb’s Navy Rum.
I pour some rum into my tea. I pour some rum into my mouth.
I am free.
I check the record collection to see what is popular to vaguely gauge the year and I see Cud Oasis Stone Roses not really my taste but it’s a soundtrack to an era I suppose and I know I’ll like it a lot more in twenty years but not yet no not yet.
There is a small television that I do not switch on and the screen is thick glass over soft velvet gray and a deep black border and there is a dial where you can find noise between the black and white bullshit and I turn the dial like the dial of a safe but there is no treasure or important documents only my reflection from now.
I look down at the girl.
She is blonde.
I don’t know her name or age or anything about her and I feel like I should so I kneel down beside her and listen to her breathing and her lips are so plump and parted to show white teeth pink tongue and with a thumb I gently pull open her eye to see deep blue and I know I will see that eye in the early Spring of the next millennium on a day much like this one in a park with her children and she will be plumper and her husband will be balding and she will walk past me without recognition but I’ll know her blue eyes her thin naked shoulder from decades before in a kitchen in a flat in the nineties.
I know all I need to know from the girl.
I stand up and I am free more free than I will ever be again and the day unfolds before me like a flower with no markings no need to be anywhere no-one to see no-one to care I can go where I like with whoever I like and the things of the future the wife and the family and the love and commitment the pain and the debts and the infinite bottomless anger are all yet to happen and the man I am now at this time of the nineties is impossibly light with no computers or cares and for that single day I will never be tired and I’ll never grow old for tiredness and age are the threats of tomorrow.
I look at the girl I look at the flat and I look out of the window at the bright morning sunshine and I kiss the girl that I will briefly see in twenty years time and I open the door softly to avoid waking the strangers and I walk out to the street to the sunlight to the crocuses and at first I walk and then I run.

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2 Responses to 128. Static

  1. Elea says:

    I very much enjoy your Blog but this one made me cry. Which is fantastic, I enjoy big (soppy) emotions. It’s so beautifully written I am not sure if I read prose or verse. Thank you.

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