A couple marches toward the ocean, trailing a stream of salt. A straight road. A blue horizon. An estate agent propped into the craggy hillside. Glass walls. Young couples sitting in lecture style theatre seats chatting to the sales people. A basket of cocktail sausages wrapped in dim sum skins. Steaming hot. An hour or more of a walk. A dusty white streak along the tarmac. The blue ocean. The young couple. The sense of commitment.
She never came anywhere with us. She never brought us anywhere. She just sat. Mulling. I was down in the basement doing laundry. She was organising a cocktail party. One of several. All week, cocktails. The freeze-thaw action of social etiquette, or putting on a show. Dark and Disappointing. Always. I have too much change in my pocket.
It’s all been going very well. People have gotten involved and are throwing themselves into it. Full support. Full cooperation. Then they sent out a flyer. And all the language changed. It wasn’t mine anymore. It was described as a form. And it wasn’t mine anymore. And I hadn’t admitted this to myself. That this was mine. That I shaped it. That I needed it . That I developed through it. And I kept it up after she was gone. I did. She had some success but the people on that side of things don’t seem to commit to anyone else’s time. And why would they? And now I’m the same. They have changed the shape of it.
I want to go back to sleep. I want to go back to sleep.