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crystal balls

For one moment, your eyes meet: that oh-so-cliche meeting of two sets of tired and weary eyes, that electric exchange of looks, that intoxicating vision that will fuel a fortnight of yearning and wet dreams and of endless infatuated ramblings to half-interested friends. Oh, those eyes, those eyes.

And in those eyes you see visions: visions of the future, visions of what will become, of what is over the horizon and of what is down in the small valley over the crest of that hill just up ahead.

You see the late nights you’ll wait up for her call, alone and lonely, the tap dripping and dripping and dripping, cockroaches scurrying across the floor, your roommates asleep and dreaming sweet dreams of Cameron Diaz willingly fulfilling their wildest sexual fantasies. There’s a newspaper nearby but you’ll be too tired to do anything except sit there waiting for that phone to ring, and you’ll begin to ask yourself whether it’s worth sacrificing joining your roommates in that glorious dream world just to hear that same, tired voice on the other end.

You see the mornings she’ll come home puffy-eyed, sleep-deprived, messy-haired, pale-faced, zombie-like, desperately trying to act like all she did last night was have a few beers and audaciously expecting you to believe not only that, but also that her cellphone battery had run out and she either didn’t have change for a payphone or that there were no payphones wherever she was last night.

You see the fights, the conflicts, the tantrums, the raised voices and pouty lips, the tears that’ll roll from her eyes and down her cheeks and onto her Abercrombie and Fitch hoodie, the phone calls she won’t pick up, the money you’ll waste on meals that neither of you really like and the horribly uncomfortable times you’ll spend in the company of her friends while she tries to direct the conversation towards her and not you.

And so on.

You’re just about to get to the good bits when she turns to her girlfriends and begins laughing in that annoying laugh that you’ve learned to hate over the years and walks away with the lot of them, holding hands and smiling, while you’re left there, standing immobile, holding your bags of shopping in front of the Burger King, rock-like in a river of moving human flesh and bone.

Your bags feel heavy and your shoes feel like they’ve had bucketloads of water pourn into them. You feel like you’ve just walked through a torrential downpour and are standing there, dripping with water, shivering, pathetic, on the front doorstep of your ex-girlfriend’s house, asking if you could come in and rifle through her drawers for any of your clothes that she hasn’t thrown away yet. And maybe a hot mug of coffee or something of the sort, if she doesn’t mind.

It takes you a while to compose yourself, but when you do, you begin to ask yourself why you felt the way you did just now. You know perfectly well that if she saw anything in your eyes, it must have been a life of happiness and love, of blue skies and cliche photographs of the two of you trying to express your love for each other—and failing, desperately—through the medium of photography.

After all, you’re infallible, aren’t you?

What this is, then, is a piece of drivel that I cobbled together in about an hour due to suddenly being struck by a desire to write something really crappy just as an excuse to not get the early night that I so desperately need. It’s also a melding of my seeming inability to write cheerful things, various secondhand experiences, the odd firsthand experience, a couple of Casiotone for the Painfully Alone songs—first person to name the songs gets a prize*—and some sort of odd loneliness at these nearly-unholy hours of night.

*Probably not.

Categories: prose and poetry
  1. Dec 28, 2008 at 16:43

    sad and lovely

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