pistacchio

I decided to go to trivia but my team didn’t show. maybe I should pay more attention to my inbox. I drank the glass of house red I’d already queued for in a corner of the pool room. half an hour scrolling on my phone for a jacket they sold out of. I held one in my hands before the rally on Sunday. when they say ‘never too late’ it’s aspirational, although if it makes a difference, it’s not for for nothing. on the way out I was eavesdropping and heard the quizmaster confess to a patron she’s been in the job at the same pub for four years. I sleep in a room I’ve occupied for much longer than I should in light of its size and the claustrophobia of the cold and lack of space. shouting from next door, sarcastic voices and bitterness. the neighbours move out this month. they’ve lived in their house, identical to ours, long before I moved in. I hear him play trumpet and their arguments wake me up sometimes. it feels perverted to know so much about people I have never met. the girls never introduced me when I moved in. I guess things were busy. they always are.

every few sentences or thoughts or breaths I remember every ounce of anything I feel is my own. no matter the gravity of any experience, I will only ever have myself to keep on the same page and not miss the fine print. no matter the weight of any feeling, it is contained within my frame. a body that happens to exist somewhere peaceful and safe, with other bodies keeping me in mind and pulled by duty and varying degrees of love to check in and care. I am here. every few thoughts I remember the footage I see on my phone. the number of child martyrs and how many more today? the massacres I cry for until I look away because it’s alll too much for my fragile body. I walk this line and the slip into the sobering dystopia that is the reality beyond my bubble is a slap in the face every time.

I am still surprised and hurt and humoured and I still feel warm when I think of someone I love. the cogs still move. I chose pistacchio gelato and I missed home.