I didn’t know anything could be so perfect. The lights of the mirrorball, a thousand swirling eyes.
I dream of relaxing nights. There were loads of people in my flat
when I got home. I’m not really one for big crowds. It makes me want to
retreat into my shell. I’m looking forward to seeing how it turns out.
This is a reconstruction: I can’t tell how it happened, there are too
many angles, too many reflections. The harder I look at another, the
more I see myself. It feels like I’m here alone, in this crowd, myself
projected around the room, the mirrorball a beam splitter. When
contentment comes upon me, I have to find ways to destroy it. I slide
the hairs in the coffee cup up its wall, click the kettle on. While it
rushes and hisses, I dance with spiders. One of those spindly ones, all
legs and angles, made up of lines, is feasting on its prey, caught up in
a mesh. The kettle clicks off, my skin creeps and my head hurts. I need
to suffer more. I was feeling too comfortable, for a second there, I
guess.
He was there to save me, alone in a freezing wooden-floored flat,
which I couldn’t heat. He sent me this ball, ordered on the Internet. He
came later. I had had no money for a few days, and was desperate for a
cigarette. I remembered that when I was younger, I had hid some in a tin
full of movie stubs and limited-edition chocolate bar wrappers. I found
the tin, and inside was one single cigarette. Throwing the stuff aside,
I placed the cigarette carefully on my dry lips, and pat-a-caked my
pockets in a panic, located lighter and flicked the flame into
existence. I drew deeply, tobacco and paper crackling, my alveoli
filled, my blood vessels roared, my scalp tingled and stomach turned.
The hairs on my arms stood up, and so did I, lunging head first for the
window, flung open in one motion, drinking down the black cool air, as
my mind shrieked “I can’t feel my arms!”
Now I’m here.
I’ve always been a happy person. I work hard, and try not to let
people down. If they would not be there, there would be no-one to let
down. Things have to be a certain way, there is a beauty in order. I’ve
cleaned this flat today, before leaving for work. There, I cleaned the
storeroom, arranged items in the window, smiled at the customers, chose
appropriate music, wrapped gifts, gave change, smiled at the staff, told
them stories of my past, smoked a cigarette by the bins, ordered
sage-coloured vases from the Parlane catalogue, lay down on the
four-poster bed with no mattress, glanced out the window, cleaned the
windows, warmed some soup, dusted the lamps, waited for the sun to set,
counted, listened, locked. And then it was time to walk home.
This is not my town, but then again, where is? These are not my
people, but is anyone, really? He is here again. Windmilling around the
rooms, knocking ashtrays over, bellowing to be heard, desperation in his
eyes. I know how he feels, but he does something about it. He gets out
of his face, waits for a gap in the conversation, and gabbers his
philosophy without solicitation. Our eyes meet across the room, and I
feel a little like the spider. I gather the spent cans in a blue plastic
off-licence bag, and smile as I stoop.
“How has your week been?”
“Well, work was quite good, sold the chiminea, at last, and… Looking forward to tonight.”
