Cold water jets into the glass, shooting in and out, soaking my hand and sleeve. I fumble with the kitchen tap until the glass is full. Leaning against the sink, one hand on the counter to steady myself, I take a long drink. The white walls throb under the strip light, in time to the ringing in my ears. I take another drink, until my stomach begins to slosh, and put the glass on the side.
Maybe Carmella is home now, sitting at the kitchen table or on the sofa, or maybe brushing her hair. She could be thinking about tonight, wondering whether I will write to her (I will) and wondering if I do, whether she will write back.
I take a step towards the stairs, stumble, try to hold onto the table and crash to the floor. The cold linoleum is comforting against my cheek. The lace from one of Ian’s boots trails along the floor in front of my eyes. Red and blue and red and blue and red and blue and red and blue and red and blue and red and blue and big black boot. A pair of slipper-like shoes nestles next to Ian’s boots. The slipper-shoes are small and slim and shiny. They are surrounded by fallen sequins that glint like silverfish on the brown mat.
I want to talk to Carmella; I need to, to tell her that I won’t forget. Pulling my ‘phone out, I try to text, but my fingers mash the keys and it drops from my grasp. I try to select her number, but the screen is hazy, as if it has been smeared with Vaseline. I say her name, hoping she will hear. I say it louder.
A man and a woman appear in the kitchen, long hair obscuring their faces as they look down at me. Hands reach out from beneath the hair and lift me up, spiriting me up the stairs along the landing into my room and onto my bed.
Maybe Carmella is home now, sitting at the kitchen table or on the sofa, or maybe brushing her hair. She could be thinking about tonight, wondering whether I will write to her (I will) and wondering if I do, whether she will write back.
I take a step towards the stairs, stumble, try to hold onto the table and crash to the floor. The cold linoleum is comforting against my cheek. The lace from one of Ian’s boots trails along the floor in front of my eyes. Red and blue and red and blue and red and blue and red and blue and red and blue and red and blue and big black boot. A pair of slipper-like shoes nestles next to Ian’s boots. The slipper-shoes are small and slim and shiny. They are surrounded by fallen sequins that glint like silverfish on the brown mat.
I want to talk to Carmella; I need to, to tell her that I won’t forget. Pulling my ‘phone out, I try to text, but my fingers mash the keys and it drops from my grasp. I try to select her number, but the screen is hazy, as if it has been smeared with Vaseline. I say her name, hoping she will hear. I say it louder.
A man and a woman appear in the kitchen, long hair obscuring their faces as they look down at me. Hands reach out from beneath the hair and lift me up, spiriting me up the stairs along the landing into my room and onto my bed.
Hello, my name is Jack Sparrow. I'm a 50 year old self-employed Pirate from the Caribbean.
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