by Jack Blatish

Created on: June 27, 2009   Last Updated: June 28, 2009

Chapter 1 the phrase.

Every time it has happened.

Every time I have done the deed I've said the same words.

The same phrase, the same question.

I don't really know why I say it, or what it means, and how the girls feel when I say it.

But I say it all the same.

I sit on the edge of the ruffled bed. Jeans sticking to my legs. The world is hot, and hazy and the sun always makes it through the blinds, or the curtains or the teddy bears.

I perch there while they wink with one eye and wait for it.

They wait for me to say something. To put it in context, and let them know how I am feeling. But they know how I' feeling. They can feel it.

They can trace the beads of sweat running down my back.

They can sense it when I slip the t-shirt on, and it sticks and creases against the heat of my body, the heat of the situation.

I pause.

Take a small breath and I always say it.

'Where the hell is my spine?'

I get up, and walk to the door.

I shut it.

I trot down the stairs.

Open the door.

It's bright, I can hear the builders, I can hear the children on their way to the dentists, I can hear bags of shopping being loaded into cars.

I can hear the door shut behind me as I step out onto the pavement and the episode is over.

Chapter 2 - shelter

My lips are dry.

Sitting at the bus stop, glinting up at the sun.

I just want to get home.

I want this day that has just risen to be over now.

It feels dirty and already old in my mind.

The bus comes, the 123 to Woodgreen.

I get on, and I give the Sri Lankan bus driver a fiver.

I look at him more closely.

He really should have a cigarette in his mouth.

A dry dirty white one with no nib.

That's what he should be smoking.

The creases in his face say he smokes, the yellowness in his eyes say the same.

The stale look we give each other as he hands over the change says the same thing about me.

About the way I look right now.

'Thanks', I said.

He forces the tinniest crease on the edge of his raw lips that you can imagine.

The doors shut and I sit down next to the fattest woman I can find. She's white and has tighlly pinned back hair.

I find the rolls of blubber hanging off her side to be a comfort to me at this time in the morning.

She takes a deep hanging breath, her tightly coiled lungs force the air in and out, and the lard pushes against me ever so slightly.

People say that anything that reminds you of being in the womb is comforting.

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