I hadn’t wanted to for years with you, with myself, with the grey-haired owner of the furniture shop across the road, who had once urinated into the wheelie-bin when he thought no-one was looking.
The cat was looking. I was looking.
All of a sudden, in a fit of summer heat and falling down the stairs in front of a screen brimming with important government-types, I did want to. So did you, though I didn’t get round to asking the urinary ancient, somehow. But then it was warm. Maybe later? Still too warm; the British summer. Are you having a laugh? Well, no. No-one was laughing. Though you did ask me what my excuse had been for all this wasteland of time, and that may have been amusing if you’d have let me split your throat and pull your tongue through the bleeding ravine. Oddly familiar.
It was the brain chemicals, of course, the brain chemicals, because the brain chemicals equal the body physicals, sometimes. Physicals, fizzicals, fizziness, chemicals… geddit? They ran like feral torsos around my head, making logic of all things illogical, until the logical you pulled the plug on my tendency to illogicalness. I tried to be funny about it but could only muster thoughts about grandparents accidentally hashtagging sex over pictures of their anniversary cake, grandchildren inevitably screaming, ‘Stop it, Grandma!’, whilst a fishing net full of bulbous-eyed sociopaths watched on with pity and lemon curd leaking from their tips, in equal measure. It would only have been funny when unconscious.
I was one of the last to get the four question marks thing- get as in entire, full, unending comprehension, and not as in receiving a box of llama shavings through the post from your secret admirer (yourself). I’d also began to enjoy the way my Is would look when bled out with cheap, red biro, but following this recognition, they would return to being regular shaped and much less fancy. I couldn’t do it anymore. Like breathing. Or mild tolerance of sentences beginning with conjunctions. I text you to say that I was thinking of ripping my fucking arms open, and Googled ways to commit suicide whilst eating Mini Cheddars on my lunch break. Down the river, not over the bridge. You didn’t text me back.