London, spring, 2012
It’s been about a month since we got married and the whirlwind of chaos that bought that day has taken drastic turns. You’ve lost your job & your mind, everything is contained in this tiny room of drug highs & lows and lows. The black concrete floors and crusty yellow paint make me sick. How can one space have so many tiles and so few windows. The place that used to be my salvage from the cold has become a bed of mouldy emotions and a boiler to small to fill the bath.
It’s late. You’ve been on a date in a cemetery and storm in totally off your face after hours of muddled phone calls I can’t understand. Our friends are staying. The beautiful souls who cooked Oakland's finest vegan food for our wedding. They are delighted and excited to be here and as we wait for you I wait for the storm. Your friendship means so much to them and I know no one means anything to you. I hold that knowing deep in my gut and the corners of my mouth when I smile.
You fall through the front door screaming about your wife. I’ve also been on a date and you know it meant more than yours. Torrents of incomprehensible shit spew from your beautiful mouth and it’s all thrown at me. I’m sitting. I’m moving between the lounge and the kitchen. I’m making tea. I’m rolling cigarettes. I’m trying to laugh off the hate. Our friends sit and watch, waiting to sleep on the couch, as you throw the entire contents of the kitchen out of the kitchen, through the empty doorway at me. I wonder how long I will float in the gap between the rooms, how long it will take you to finish throwing things at me, if you’ll rip the cooker out along with our hearts.
I am a strange sponge, endlessly soaking up your shit. I think about how many other peoples tears I can hold. Then I carry you to bed and you tell me ‘I love you Hex, I love you’. I know it means nothing, it’s just part of your American sales pitch, selling me our friendship like I should of sold this marriage. But I take it anyway.