THOSE WHO SUFFER LOVE
I sit in the cold of St Pancras station until six in the morning. Kelly isn't getting on the Eurostar, she's getting a ferry. We couldn't think of anywhere else to wait. She'll be in Paris by the afternoon.
I drink coffee. She's still drunk from the jazz club and carrying a suitcase full of dandylion and burdock and I don't know why. We are sitting beside each other, she's reading a book in French, something about semiotics, I'm drawing out magical helms.
We are talking past each other, but it was always so. We had dinner at the usual place, ate the usual meal. She's sleeping with several men. I want to talk about god, but she wants to talk about cognac. She needs me to come to an Elvis convention in Blackpool with her. She wants to borrow my dress.
I've had a headache every day and keep waking up with bloody noses. We think James is going to fall apart soon and it will only be me to really catch him this time. I don't think I'll be able to.
It's a strange and empty place, inside the station, and my whole body shakes as I leave it. I wave her off to the underground, go to the street to get on my bus. There's a hole in my stockings and the button's still missing from my coat. I can't feel my fingertips or my face.
It's a short bus ride, I could walk it really, but I'm too impatient, too tired.
I never see London as the sun rises. I stare out my kitchen window, listen to my upstairs neighbours, crawl into bed.