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I turn my left palm and release the powder, let it fall. As it touches the flames they turn green. I anticipate the tingling sensation, step into the fireplace and stare at the bricks, blackened over years by ash and flames. The address is familiar. My mind starts spinning before my body does. I can see the Us rewind, night by night, kiss by kiss. My eyes are wide open, my body reluctant to go, every turn takes a million years. Chimney after chimney after chimney flashes by as I glimpse into other lives and worlds, wishing that time would
stop
boring me, Jenny, I’ve heard all this many times,” says a man in his forties, feet up on a large wooden desk, left hand lazily loosening his tie, while the right holds a little mirror. He winks at his reflection and flashes a winning smile. A swooning witch on the formidable mantelpiece across the room faints in her frame. He tilts the palm-sized mirror and the face of a woman appears in it, her expression a mixture of frustration and desperation. “Zacharias, there is nothing I can do –“– “Look, get it done, I don’t want to wait ‘till next
Christmas
decorations twinkle in the shops’ windows around us. With each breath white puffs form against the cold air. They mingle with fumes of mulled wine. Through the fog two blue crystals hypnotize me. My heart beats fast, with every beat I lose some sense. The giggling has ceased, we stare at each other. The air is charged, its current runs through me. The red of her lips is enticing and the gravity shifts unstoppably, daring me to resist. But I was never one to hold tension. So I lean in and my lips touch hers. My insides explode, forgotten is
time
to check your blood sugar again, isn’t it? Two hours after dinner …” A wrinkled hand cautiously approaches an equally wrinkled one, which is attached to an arm resting comfortably in its designated place: an arm rest. Eyes, set in a wrinkled face, detach themselves from the Evening Prophet and shoot a loving, if slightly annoyed, look at another wrinkled face. Two wrinkled people sit in front of the fire place as they have done every night for the past forty years. Routines don’t vary, but recently his blood sugar does. “It’s alright honey, don’t worry too much about my
blood
drops fall, elasticity deforms them in one fluid motion in the flicker of a moment that is their life. They burst and splash, forming a beautiful pattern before being swallowed by the drain. I look interestedly at my finger. I’m liquid inside, I think, fascinated, carrots and onions all forgotten. Warm arms encircle me from behind. “Silly Lily, what did you do? Be careful with the knife“, she takes my hand and slowly my finger disappears into hot and wet. Everything about her is soft, and her tongue is, too. I lean back into the comforting feeling of her and
smile
she tells herself. She bats her eyelashes seductively. Then leans closer to the mirror, carefully applying more powder, turns her face left, checking the result. A catchy tune accompanies her wiggling hips. She clips two large hoops to her ears. A crackling fire casts soft light on her small room that clashes with her flashy appearance in a pink top and white mini-skirt. She looks oddly sterile between the large, cosy twin bed, a big cupboard that overflows with dresses, t-shirts, scarfs and tights, and countless pictures that adorn the wall. For a split of a second the fire turns
green
red, white flashes of light, the beat makes my eardrums pulsate in and out. Up and down jump sweaty bodies, the mass is a being on its own. I’m part of something and I allow it to be fun as I jump with them. Something touches my behind. I’m torn from the mass, my senses are reduced to only me and the hand on my ass. I quickly spin around and tell him to piss off, right now. “Feisty!” he comments and leans in for a kiss. Two fists hit his nose and we grin at each other, then high
five
miles look like thirty inches when captured on canvas. This is where she walks now and forever. “At least the weather’s nice.” She lets sand trickle through her fingers, reminiscent of an hourglass, not that she needs one. “The scenery’s alright, too, I suppose. I remember this one guy, constantly trapped in a snowstorm …” But it’s a distant memory because she’s now the only painting in the house. The sea gently strokes the beach that she wanders every day. “Hey you,” she greets her only friend, a hermit crab. Unfortunately he’s not very talkative. One day, she’s sure, she’ll
leave
?” Siobhan repeats and slowly turns toward me, the wind whipping her hair across her face, giving her a wild look. Almost angry. “It’s just something I have to do. You know that. I’ve always wanted to do it,” I plead and shuffle my feet. Rubble crunches and a pebble rolls off, then settles itself comfortably next to a dog turd. “It’s only for one year!” I repeat, “We can easily make it.” She turns away again. “Yeah. Maybe.” Her eyes are distant as she grabs my hand and smirks. “Come here,” she draws me closer to her and we continue
walking
might have been smarter after all. I dizzily step out of the community fireplace. Not caring that I’m covered in soot my eyes are intently focused on the staircase without seeing it. I knock. I have prepared the word, I have whispered it to myself a million times trying to weave it into my soul, internalise it completely; embrace it to be ready to spit it out. The door flies open and laughter greets me. It stops abruptly. I look up and look into an unknown face. Siobhan stands frozen in the back, only half-dressed. We stare at each other.
“Goodbye.”
She says it first.