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Posts Tagged ‘depression’

you and me – POSTCARD #53

February 2, 2012 Leave a comment

I’d like to introduce you to collaboration #53 with the gorgeous babe, Coco. The card made me chuckle but of course when I sat down and started writing a story about being topless on the beach I didn’t exactly end up with a summertime romp. Oh well, hopefully that’s why you like me…. maybe even love me?

Yeah, you love me.

But not as much as I love you.

x

 

but i want to

The sweat drips down her ribcage and she puts a hand under one breast and flicks the moisture into the sand. She lies back on her towel and parts her legs slightly so they are no longer touching. Her bikini bottoms stretch and the elastic irritates her bronzed skin.

She lights a cigarette and looks down the beach while the stale taste of tobacco swirls around her tongue. No-one was around and she takes a deep drag before extinguishing the remainder into the sand. It sticks up beside the other three she’d already smoked like little tombstones of her time here.

The beach house she was renting had hundreds of them scattered through the yard. Sometimes it was the only way she could tell how long she’d been here.  The first thing she’d done when she’d arrived was to pull out the telephone and turn off her mobile. He would have to find out where she’d gone before he could convince someone to drive him down and confront her. His license had been revoked after he totalled his car high on someone else’s meds.

She lights another cigarette and pulls the string of her bikini, tossing the sodden lycra in the sand.

HEY LADY

She turns at the masculine shout. A small, tanned man was awkwardly stomping towards her.

LADY YOU CAN’T SMOKE OR BE NAKED HERE

She sits up and squints at him making no move for her bathers as he approaches.

This seems to enrage him further and he shouts that it’s against the rules. There are signs with the rules on them. He shouts for a while before he abruptly stops, his face crumpling, and leaves with slumped shoulders.

When she puts her hand to her face it comes away wet not from sweat but from tears.

 

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a small recipe

February 12, 2010 1 comment

the bananas are rotting, but that’s okay because they’re supposed to, you have to let them sit there and go brown and say yes that’s fine, even though you’re not usually the kind of person who likes to let things get old, you have a cupboard stocked with staples and it’s okay if friends tease you about it a little because they don’t know why you do this, so you keep a cupboard stocked with grains and pulses and pasta, you like to cook for others mostly, salty savoury treats that make you lick your fingers and feel very fine about your larder, and it’s only mornings like these that you reach for the self-raising flour, the sugar, the sweet corner of your cupboard that’s hard to reach, you have to slide a chair across the tiles and stand on your tippee-toes and you get out your favourite shiny silver bowl and you mix the sugar and butter together and your wrist begins to ache, you hum a bit and sing to songs that make you happy because that’s what you want people to taste, you mix and add the bananas, over-ripe,  you remind yourself, not a dead thing, and you burn yourself on the oven as you slide your cake in, and you suck on the welt and smile in a wry kind of way because you always do this when you bake, and now you can sit down and wipe the little smudge of flour from your cheek, that’s somehow turned to dough and that’s okay too, because the cake is rising now, and no-one will be able to taste how much you ache, not even you