You’re not the only one
1.
She lay still. The morning light cut her in two, criss-crossing her frame as she lay naked.
There was nothing but the silence of the hotel room. Her tousled hair strewn across the pillow, she stretched like an alley cat, yawned slightly, and thought.
Shit.
She looked below at the crowds streaming out onto the street, comforted by the scream of traffic whistles, horns and unstable bicycles carrying water cans too large for their rickety wheels. It enveloped her almost as snugly as the white cotton sheets now discarded on the floor.
Wandering slowly towards the mirror, she inspected her pale freckled skin, muttered, and prepared for the swimming ritual.
Water.
Always in the morning, water. Water, and waiting for the war. She could smell it almost as clearly as the diesel that now hit the morning air.
I wonder, she thought, what you should do while preparing for war?
Christopher Walken looked out at her from the wall. Lennox Lewis was tilted towards him, gloves baring.
What to do.
2.
Nights were sweaty and nervous. She was being chased. Last night it was a crocodile snapping at her until she reached the shore. The American was involved, not a particularly good omen. He would pop up wherever she went, always making sure to include a few silent phone calls that she ignored.
She continued on, learning songs as she wrote. There wasn’t much else to do. Love Me Love Me, Sea of Love, Where is My Love.
Love was quite the theme.
3.
He was born in the Summer. It was hot. It had been a brief encounter. She was mesmerised by his dark eyes and the fact that he was born in 1975. It all somehow ended in a child.
She called him Elvis. There was thick black hair and a temper. Inherited from his mother. Creamy olive skin that she coveted rather openly. Long lashes and big big dark brown eyes.
They understood each other well. Enough.
Their relationship survived dangerous waters because laughter was the element to ease all arguments, lies, betrayals and harsh realities.
Lying was a necessity in these times, but a smile or laugh gave the lie away, so there was no real deceit. This is what kept them together.
He loved her. She loved him.
The afternoon shadows were a necessary cocoon and the silence of the small apartment was refuge. Often they spent hours just listening to CDs and the radio. He would laugh at her as she danced around the room.
I like it raw
Oh yeah
I like it raw
Oh yeah
Don Dellilo on the pink tatty shelf. It remained unread. Grahame Greene and The Detective, Six Out Seven and The Memory Room, on the other hand, were worn to buggery. The lights of New York were below.
This was her home. The real home.
Wasn’t a bad thing about it.
4.
She could never understand any of The War. It remained a puzzle.
The whole war thing was just plain tawdry. Like most, she now shrugged and ignored it. It was in the end. Just a headline.
God knows what we were all to believe in though, she thought.
Nothing. Ultimately.
Now, what are you going to do if you don’t believe in anything?
Do nothing.
She thought this was an excellent solution and did it rather well.