Paranoia
Lady walking along that road from Elephant and Castle to Waterloo said she loved my outfit.
She might have said something else before that, but I had my headphones in. I said something like I was just thinking the same about hers. Blue dress, blue flats with a leaf stuck to the heel of one, headscarf, fancy purse that reminded me of business women. Or women who mean business.
She was smoking a cigarette. I thought she looked chic as fuck and was surprised she was making conversation with me. She had just gone out of her way to not walk under one of those signs- one of those ones that walking under “makes you gay”. I walked under it.
She was on her way to court. Not jury. On the stand. First day of trial, she said.
She asked me where it was. Somewhere around here, I was sure. She was on the right path, I was sure. Look at her striding.
I told her I was sure she was innocent after she promised she was. She said she was nervous: I was saying anything: about my job, when she asked- about what I was doing here, when she asked.
I don’t know; I don’t think anyone is innocent. I didn’t ask what she was innocent of. I didn’t want to go there. She seemed nice enough, though.
Then she looked at me and said, “Wow, you’re really beautiful” and I laughed and thought, what a liar.
She was nervous about court. I told her, “Deep breaths”. I told her, “Look, you’ve a cigarette. You’re halfway to peace already.”
I told her my name, and she told me hers. I’ve lost it to the wind now.
We parted at the tip of that roundabout where it splits- I was going left. She was going somewhere- I wasn’t sure where the court was from there. Neither was she. When I was across the road, I turned back to look at her and saw her standing, looking at her phone. I hope she made it to court on time. I hope she’s innocent. I hope she shed that leaf from her sole before she arrived.
I’m trying to sleep, but I’ve the fear and whatever position I’m in, my heart is throbbing in my left ear. There’s a faint ringing in my right ear- that’s the one that got tinnitus late last year, about a week after I turned twenty-three.
There is so much I keep forgetting. I need to tell mum about the crack in the wall.
One day, this roof is going to collapse.
There is a split in the paint. I can see that it’s through and into the wall. I can see that it’s growing taller and wider, and spits legs that splinter up and onto the ceiling- down into the floor.
I’m going to forget to tell mum about it, and one day, this roof is going to collapse: the window is going to peel away from the wall, the bricks will lift right off this side of the flat.
I’m going to trip on the way home and crack my tooth on the pavement.
I’m going to fall and bloody my knees. I can feel it- I know it’s about to happen. No matter how quick I am on the draw with saluting all these magpies, I can feel it. I know it’s going to happen.
No sudden movements:
I am terrified.
I’ve got The Fear, and I’m staring at this crack in the wall, hoping that I remember this in place of the things that I remember.
The smell of my sweat, shaking hands, quiet.
The sound of a can rolling down the alleyway behind me: a bottle across the floor of a bus.
The dark, the dark, the dark.
I feel so young and small, you know.
The rain came through the ceiling last winter: what are we going to do if London floods?