Friday, April 29, 2011

Dances With Mops In Library Carparks

Our breaths fog the windows of this little red car.
As always, there is licorice and ginger beer, pretzels and cake. Come tomorrow, we'll still find crumbs in our pockets, in the seat, on the roof, in our hair.

It's winter now, and although it's never white where we are, it's ok because we're never warm enough anyway. That's why the heater is on full blast.

We'll play bad dance music on our Ipods - lamenting the loss of the CD player - and reminisce about how we used to dance at night in summer, I would watch, and you would dance with the mops and brooms.

We don't really discuss anything worthwhile. I amuse myself with drawing on the window while you bitch about someone at work. "Yeah, that guy, I hate him too", I agree.

"We're having kinky sex, wish you were here?"
When did I start becoming so perverted?

We never really accomplish anything. At some point, we'll drive to your house, and we'll sit in your living room - at the table that's been there since you were born - and we'll drink tea and eat cake.
Or rather, you'll eat cake, because you know how I can't stomach sugar and you take it away from me before I can eat it anyway.

I'll flip idly through a magazine about something and nothing in particular while your voices drift over my head, and I'll catch pieces of another conversation.
Sometimes I feel like I should join in, but I know you don't mind when I space out.

Someone always starts talking about how they miss summer nights, when we would sit outside and watch fireworks and make a bonfire. A really puny bonfire, I think.
"I like winter more," I add.
"I know you do," you'll say.

Sometimes I'll join in too, and we'll laugh ourselves silly. Anyone else would stare at us, wild gestures and expressions. They wouldn't understand that you have different faces, and these hand gestures are because I've painted my nails with stars. Face 1 is scorn. Face 2 is disapproval. Face 3 is when you laugh like you'll explode.

Sometimes I will sink into a quiet silence. I'll pick at books that are strewn about, or pick at a piece of cake I can't eat. You always take pity on me and make me toast.
Conversation never wavers, even though I drop in and out. It's like we adjust to make room for each other's habits. Habits that we know so well they might as well be our own.

So when you start waving your hands about, I know you're getting frustrated and I'll change the topic.
And when you start flicking your hair with irritation like that, I know you want to go and do something.
And when you start tapping at the table, I know you're probably thinking about someone.

I wonder what habits I have? If I asked you, you probably won't be able to tell me.
But when I look, I notice that there's always something salty in the shopping basket (we spend too much time in Foodtown), you always look at me funny when I say I'm fine and you always say my favourite line:

"That's just who you are."

These are the things I want to remember us by.

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