My mind was eating me up she said in her defense. The weekend was long, and anxiety ate at her like red foxes into calves’ wet umbilical cords. The thing is with foxes and calves’ umbilical cords is the foxes don’t know when to stop, they’ll just keep chewin until barely a calf is left. Something had to be done, it didn’t feel good anymore.
What is it about time that can change something from being so meringue gooey and light as a prawn cracker sat on the side of your chinese stirfry, crunchy yum tingly on your tongue? He flew her up like a kite. Every day was a series of pirouettes. And then she woke up one day and she only had the desire to run. She wanted to be the evil one. Because she knew the initial sheen of her had rubbed away, time did it, time did it like it does, in the wave of everything, of him and her, it had exploded and rested again and she could feel the salt creating a crust over her where her sheen once was. There is a period after the wave, where lust has time to settle before love begins. Where there is no sheen. Where the goblins are out and the erection problems, the weird fetishes, the penchant for jealous remarks when one is feeling uneasy, the demand to be phoned when one needs reassurance. And this is a time of no control. To have control during this part you aren’t in it, you are playing a game. This is the time you are as raw as a burn. Naked from an unflattering angle.
She almost hated him. She almost hated him for doing this to her, planting her right here. She had no choice she wanted to be evil, evil in the way she had learnt. Like that time life had taught an old dog (her) new tricks (disconnected sex with multiple men in the one week in the same bed sheets and having a giggle at it, at their expense). She felt powerful then. Impenetrable. Untouchable. She started fantasising about that kind of thing. She started playing a game with him and had no desire for anything else. Every bit of her was electrified and she was ready to sting sting sting like a teeny little deadly jellyfish with a head like a box. This was no way to begin love, she knew that. But what could she do? She had spent enough time around poppy seeds, men with drumsticks and surfboards for noggins and poppy seeds for nuts. And transference took hold. He was just like everyone else. He was not fucking special.
What is a man? A man can only be called a man when he has the ability to stand up when he sees something he likes. A man can only be called a man when he doesn’t drag any poor sod along for his own personal gain. A man can only be called a man when he doesn’t make a sod wait through his um and ar while he digs around for his own scrotum. Men fear far more than women. Women rebirth, we bounce back. I suppose that is why we can begin love easier. We find that camphor laurel root – the pest – when flogging a dead horse becomes too much, and we dig it out. And we may cause a spectacle in doing so, tears and chardonnay and diggin ciggie filters out from between the boards of the deck to keep feeding our wretched over-talking mouths which have gone through the same details for the 64th time. But it all fades with momentum once we have exorcised ourselves, vomited and purged and shat people to tears. Men sit in their own shit, they sit soiled, it squelching around while they drink and do what they need to and chat up birds in bars, get that remedial warm meaningless wetness on their tip “yeah i’m fine,” they’ll say. And then a few months in they’ll realise they are still thinkin of her. She ain’t gone. She ain’t in oblivion where they tried to fuck her to. She is still in his head.
She kept busy over the weekend, she did funny things like exercise heaps. Why was she so nervous? Was she worthless, did she really feel that way about herself, or did she truly just know, when the time came, he would back away. While skulking around, and exercising her way through the fight to be a boxy sting girl, would you believe, a past lover called her from the desert. It had been 6 months! God had she wanted him. She had spent the initial weeks in agony. Staying up all night looking at the moon, reaching out to him, telling him she could not sleep. And he was so mean. She’d got done after a bit with floggin the dead horsie. She cut him like brie and sent him sliding on a cracker. But there he was, after so long, his voice on the other line, reaching out. She had chicken stew on the stove and while he was talking, she just kept wondering about the chicken stew. “I gotta go,” she said eventually, “I have chicken stew on the stove.”
Monday came and she couldn’t wait any longer. Half of her was already on that hypothetical motorbike, the one Neil Young talks about, the one his muse rides with her long blonde hair flyin in the wind and only thing gonna stop her was him being Mel Gibson. She got him to call her. He seemed reluctant. Did he know what was impending, she knew him well enough to know he probably did. He called and she told him she wanted to run and he asked her why and she told him. She told him that she’d started comparing everyone else to him. “How do you feel about me?” She asked. And what a thing to ask, could you be anymore nude, and hairy, with bat wings running down your legs for pubes before him. He sighed, and he breathed deep. “I’m not serious about you,” he said.