Sighing, shrug of the shoulders. "Me too. But I couldn't… it's cause I'm goin' away. London."
"But you're comin' back, surely?"
"I don't know" I say. "I don't know if I am. I doubt it, as it happens. And being uncertain, it'd be nothin' but the foulest, most selfish chicanery to let things go on any longer. To pretend to herself and myself that it's only a temporary upheaval when everything's telling me it's nothing of the sort."
She makes a sympathetic "Dear me…" face, biting at the corner of her bottom lip, tilting the head some. "Well are youse still friends, at least?"
"Oh God aye" I say. "To lose a girlfriend's wretched enough - to lose a best friend at the same time… save us it'd be enough to wreck a man six times my size."
"Well that's always somethin'." Making for to head off towards the offices at the far-end of the building, she says "You'll keep in touch with us, aye? Let us all know how you're doin'."
"I will" I assure her, wandering back then to the doorway, earphones re-inserted.
To the park with one hand hung awkwardly at my side on account of the iPod leaving no room for it in the trouser pocket. At my side also walks herself. Sensing her as I go like a phantom limb, instinctively reaching to touch of occasion, and then nothing.
Speaks a voice from the back of my mind; "You'd be the wild one for playin' the martyr, wouldn't you just?"
Lashing the flesh off the shoulder blades with cat-o-nine-tails fashioned out old letters and birthday cards and valentines notes.
Sleeping with memories of sleeping next to her wound round the waist like Talbot's barbed-wire corsets.
The wild martyr, right enough.
Wandering towards me, lad I know from back at tech, blue bag full o' Steiger lager hung from one arm. "Trevor" says I, too loud probably. "You well?"
"Alright, mate?"
Questions scurrying back and forth o'er the pavings like frightened rats, never answered.
Of women living in houses next rivers and bodies touched with minds Leonard Cohen craggily coos. "A cartoon is all he is, that Cohen" a fella recently informed me, "Like Morrissey. Cartoon melancholy. Means nothin', really." Cartoon melancholy. Forlorn Leghorn.
Article comments
1 - Mat Brewster
Geezum duke, whenever I've had the break up all I do is sit in the dark room and mope with the sad songs. Here you go and write a marvelous, beautiful thing.
When you going to London?
2 - DukeDeMondo
thank you very much Sir Brewster. i was consciously avoidin sayin too much about certain things for the effect readin said things might have on certain readers (certain reads who saw this before it was published and who could have told me not to let anyone see and didn't and thank you to them also) so there was a border i couldn't cross, meanin it couldn't get excessively bogged down in self obsession to the point of removin all else. still managed to get pretty far up my arse, mind you, which is fair goin.
as to London - september. this time last year i was sayin the same thing, and part of why i didn't go then was to do with stuff to which THIS all relates. sometimes a fella might think "would it've been better to skiddadle then and save all involved this carry-on?" But no. as beautiful a year as e'er a man has spent in the company of a lass, i'd dare say.
god almighty, Sir Brewster, apologies for that excessive reply to a quite simple question...
3 - Aaron Fleming
A beautiful, poetic lament to those dark moments, those horrid instance that forever lurk in the shadows, ready to spring outward just when the joyous and wonderous state of bouyancy has been settled into, then suddenly it's ripped away with cruel lack of emotion...a kick to the gut is as inadequate an analogy as almost any articulation, but you've captured it with the most sublime eloquence. Perfect.
And commiserations with the whole horror, a terrible event it all is, for everyone involved.
4 - DukeDeMondo
sir fleming, thank you no end. bloody hell, that was altogether a beautiful thing for to think and to write and to read.
5 - Mat Brewster
Ah, but think of the glorious reunion between your fine self and Sir Fleming! The two of you in the same city again will surely unfold the mysteries of life, or at least my pernicious pancreas.
6 - Greg Smyth
Ach, how I've missed your bittersweet ramblings Sir Duke. It's only a pity what personal hell you've got to go through to churn out such sparkling prose.
7 - "Blind Dog" Fearon
Ah sir, what a piece o' literature never afore has been seen by the likes o' men. Your writing be a match for the likes o' the big men, the kerouacs, ferlinghettis, ginsbergs, hemmingways, whitmans...etc etc. you'll go far my lad, that you will...you will go far.
8 - DukeDeMondo
Sir Brewster - Myself and Sir Fleming are to be sharing a set of walls and roof, as it happens. the festivals of depravity and wonder and sittin about that will ensue... they will surely drive both of us to dementia afore year's out, God willing.
Sir Smyth - thank you very much. i think it totally accurate to prepose that, in so far as i can tell judging on what i've done during times of great distress and what i've done during times of grandest cheer - cliched as it may be - i think i need to be as miserable as is humanly possible not only to do anythin that i might consider halfways decent (not neccesarily talkin about this here, either) - but to do anythin at all. i mentioned this to you of a time and you, quite rightly, told me i was talkin nonsense. at the time i was, for i had nothin really to back up such claims. judgin on the ammount of stuff i've done the past two weeks in terms of the workrate regardin various ongoing enterprises, it's all to clear to me that the more insufferable i am to be around, the more stuff i get done that's worth the time it took to do. again, not neccesarily talkin about this particular screed, just a general observation that seems relevant given your words what you put on the screen there.
"Blind Dog" - i dunno what to say to that, sir, other than thank you. jesus oh. thank you.
9 - Jon Sobel
Oy vey, that's a mighty fine piece of prose you got there. Ach. Oy. It hurts. I need a bicarb, it's so bitter. A bicarb, I say. Ach. Oy.