The Morning After

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Sunday, midday.CC Image courtesy of torbakhopper HE DEAD on Flickr
Eyes open. Half-open. Eleven hours. Bliss. Phone flashing on the floor. Yawn. Boring. Wonder what it will be. Get up, go to bathroom. Come back, pick up phone, flop down onto bed, swipe screen. Stare. Stare some more. Laugh. Power up computer, new tab, a fragment of a URL… Yes. It’s there, it’s real. More staring. What does it mean? What should I do? Nothing, obviously, but what does it mean? And he must have done it, what… [counts hours on fingers] he was probably drunk. He’s probably regretting it now, would probably undo it if he could but he knows it would hurt me. It doesn’t mean anything, it doesn’t mean anything, but I feel so wildly, deliriously happy. I feel like skipping, and do, downstairs, to fix breakfast. It’s a gloriously sunny day and the light fills the kitchen. The cafetière is still half full from the night before – perfect. Everything’s perfect now. I can do anything – anything.

It doesn’t mean anything.


As she takes the picture I think of you. Will you see it? Will you care? Will you feel… anything? Regret? Disinterest? Will you…


We flash grins.

You should put more photos up, you said to me once, to feed me. And then you grinned, cheeky, a tad wolfish. And I felt like prey or dinner or something.

Or something. That was one of your catchphrases.

Something… anything.

It doesn’t mean anything.

CC Image courtesy of ed_needs_a_bicycle on Flickr

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