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Archive for the ‘Location: Home’ Category

Luckily, you come to the door and I can speak to a stranger without leaving my house. You hand me two parcels and I tell you there must be a mistake. The name, I don’t recognise, the weight seems too significant. You convince me to hold onto the items, despite my reluctance. You are a man of many colours, your hat is green and pink, lips red. You wear blue and there is an icing sugar sprinkle of snow on your shoulders. This is a single exchange for you, but for me you’re the only person I have seen today.

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You appear to me hazy because I am too ingrained in the dense earth of my life to be uprooted. When we speak, you frown and shrug, maybe not in that order, or maybe you didn’t do that at all. You are bespectacled and prone to laugh. I, on the other hand, feel morose, with eyes inclined to spill. Last week, I tried to ask questions of someone I knew wouldn’t answer and knew I knew that too. At the time, I thought this was meaningful but now I think that there are things I will never know about people.

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I suppose I’m saying, I am here now and I wonder for how long. I don’t know the answer. You look around, are slight and friendly. We like you, we all make each other laugh. Zac Efron is mentioned. I tug on the end of my hair. Viewings are so much like blind dates. You ask how we met and we’re reluctant to say. It was summer, we were much younger. You touch the walls and I want your scarf and your hair. I find myself saying the same things to everyone. You are calmer than anyone I’ve ever met.

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It’s your job, so you shouldn’t be ashamed. You seem too delicate for the work you’ve chosen. Do you also step back when asked a question in the operating theatre? Do you shy away from cleaning the wound, say it’s not something you could manage? Do you ask for air, when you really want escape? It seems significant that you work through the night and also peer into the cupboard rather than open it. And yet, I judge too much. You’re perfectly competent, no doubt. Conversations are easier when we speak of what we do, rather than what we want.

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Too much noise and a sadness that followed you room to room. You liked the balcony, but wouldn’t go outside. You wanted a series of rails along the walls. Body in slumped lumps, your eyes darted about, asking questions that sounded like pleas. Like me, want me, take me. A certain type of direct enquiry repels, makes me recoil, but you wouldn’t know. You aimed, drew back and shot. As it hit, venom rose. It was like tasting something not consumed since childhood. It brought anxiety with it, as much as anger. I closed the door behind as you left.

 

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