1. Boston 52
You can see everything that is inside reflected in the window if it's past five-thirty on a winter's night, and the light in the room is on. The clean whiteness and the dirty blackness of your jacket and the straw colouring of your cords and the dice hanging from your ears and your brown-looking hair tied back in a neat ponytail.
The world on the other side of the window is almost a splitting image of the real thing, but there are a few mistakes. Auburn hair looks a shiny, browny colour, and everything is slightly darker. Like someone has shaded it lightly with a charcoal crayon. It's kind of weird to look at yourself, being held up in the air by nothing, looking at yourself from a warm room and yet able to feel the cool oxygen prickling on your arms.
I make it so damn obvious that I hate you.
Every single day I avoid you. And whenever you attempt to spark conversation with me, I brush you off. Because you don't understand what I've been through even though you looked so dead serious when you told me you did. The dark velvet coat in your eyes just told me. Usually your eyes are grey with little glitters that bore the hell out of me but seem to fool everybody else. And you frame them with smoky, inky mascara like they are masterpieces.
I feel sick to the stomach just thinking about you and the things you try to say to me because you can't deal with the truth.
You can see the milky whiteness of the curtains covering the murky night, but even their random squiggles can't drown it out. The triangular space in between two of the curtains reluctantly lets the darkness in. And the wooden bars of the veranda are visible too. The clay-coloured tiles lie flat out and take the night on, causing violent head collisions. You can feel the salty mass of familiarity forming in your eyes but it never falls out. Compared to the sky and its spitting session which cancelled netball training, your eyes leaking is hardly anything to care about. Everybody notices the rain, but nobody notices your water.
You're nothing but kind to me, but I still feel awful after I talk to you. Maybe it's because I lied to you last night, and made you worry needlessly about me. If you worried at all, that is. I guess you must have, or you wouldn't have brought up Lauren and her legs. As if you know all about it. Jesus, you've just been hiding in your plastic boyfriend's arms the whole year, how would you know a thing like that? And if you'd seen her arms you wouldn't have been talking to me about her legs.
She's more slashed up than me.
And when you say you've got to go, I just lie like I always do, and say I do as well. I'm jealous of you, but you'll never know it. You ask me to go places with you but I brush you off like I brush everyone off. Almost everyone.
I've been a serious bitch, but the only words that escape your lips are sugary, sweet, kind words that seem to drill a hole through my head even more than theirs.
The smudged ink marks left over from school stain your hands. The nails are not perfectly round; there is a chip on one of them, and some are just bumpy. But there is no dirt under them, and they're pinky-pearly-white and shining in places where the artificial light hits them. The night is quiet, beyond the simple glass of the winow. All that you can here is the soft, constant whirring of the air-conditioner, and the occassional revving of a car, sometimes leaving from somewhere close to you, or slowing down somewhere close to you, or just passing by. Although why anyone would want to drive through these streets at night is beyond you. Nothing except houses, short-trimmed lawns and boring people.
But how do you know they're boring? You've never got to know them because you just assumed they were like the faces they wore. You're nothing like the face you wear, so why the hell would you judge people on a thing like that? They could be the most interesting people you've ever met.
But that's just a thought. A fantasy to while the time away while you're at home by yourself, with nothing to do but French homework.
written: Wednesday 21st July, 2004