Tuesday 24 April 2012

a seventh poem...'the movie'

We’re talking about the movie,

Together for the first time in months;

He says it was ‘okay’

‘Nothing special’,

And briefly I wonder

If he wishes I’d been with him

Right up in the back row of the arcane old theatre

Right on up there

Five seats along from the single reel movie projector

Hunkered low in his thread-loose jumper

 The pale sheen of the silver screen

Reflected in the film of his eyes

And the distance in mine.

a seventh story...'forest'

Sometimes, on the days I tried to write, I found nothing came to me.  Nothing stirred inside me.  So I would put down my pen, sit at my writing desk and look through the dormer windows to the pine trees and hills beyond.  There was something very solemn about the hills, their broad shoulders buttressing slate grey skies, ageless and old, but that was where I looked all the same.  I was drawn to them.

On the mornings when the cloud was low and the hills disappeared, I preferred to lace up my walking boots, leave the house and venture into the forest.  I liked the smell of damp in the air and the soft tread under my feet, the sound of the summer rain in the canopy, and the beckoning silence as I’d go deeper in.  Every now and then I would see a woodpigeon scurrying through the brush or hear a flock of birds rise from the somewhere nearby, but otherwise, you had to be still for a while to become aware of things around you.  The way I think about it now, the time spent alone in the forest made all the difference.  Things began to crystallise in my mind, and the story and the characters grew from this.

When I had a number of chapters written, I would sit in the forest for hours on end and read them back.  I would take a tin full of pencils, an eraser and a flask of black coffee, wedge myself in among the tangled roots of a Giant Redwood and dig my heels into the moss and earth.

It was on one quiet afternoon I heard the gunshots.  I was startled and got up from where I was reading, looking anxiously around me. There was another volley and then silence rang out.  I walked around the base of the tree I had been sitting at, but I couldn’t tell if there was anyone nearby.  I felt cold inside and noticed I was sweating under my fleece.  I waited, all ears, expecting to hear people coming through the undergrowth or for an engine to start up in the distance, but there was nothing, and in the end I gathered up my things and headed quickly back to the house.

After breakfast the next day I came across the tire tracks in the drive, and it got me wondering.  I called my sister and we both agreed it must be hunters, hunting illegally out of season.  But later I found the tire tracks went all the way to the lake, and then in the evening, as dusk was falling, there were headlights outside the window and the sound of pick-up.  Soon afterwards I found a bloodied lumberjack shirt and pair of shoes not far from the path into the forest.  It was time to close things out and move on.

Monday 23 April 2012

a sixth poem...'bed'


I picked you up

And carried you around the kitchen:

Put me down, put me down, put me down

You said.

From memory

We ended up on the linoleum floor

Both laughing,

Both drunk,

And later, in bed.

a sixth story...'endtimes'

I’ll never forget the last time I saw him, it was a grey March morning.  He had stayed over and said he would walk me to the station, but instead of saying goodbye to me at the gates, as he usually did, when we were only halfway there, he said he had to go somewhere.  He kissed me quickly on the lips, squeezed my shoulders, and told me he would see me later.  I continued on to the station, bought my ticket, went up onto the platform to take the train into work; he headed back to his house, took the stairs to his bedroom, locked the door from the inside, and killed himself with a cocktail of antiemetic drugs.

At his funeral they played his song.  The funeral was at a red brick Methodist church on a busy roundabout.  None of the congregation were regular church goers, and it was clear by the mismatching suits and the assortment of women’s dresses that no one was really sure of proper funeral etiquette, but we only had to sing one hymn and listen to a couple of readings, and people reminiscing about him.  His mother asked if I wanted to make a speech.  His father, a tall, straight man in a dark blue suit and a black turtleneck, said a few words to finish things, his face creased and drawn.  Afterwards we all accumulated in the car park behind the church, some of us smoking, some of us huddled into our coats against the chill wind, not saying much.

I was desperate to leave, and on the way back accepted a lift from my ex.  He asked if I wanted to stop off at his for a cup of tea and to talk.  We were still on speaking terms.  Again I agreed, and somehow we ended up making love on the nicotine stained corduroy sofa in the front room. It was joyless and rough.  I left without my handbag, my makeup and one of my purses, but it didn’t matter, nor did it bother me to walk home in the rain, where I stood with my arms folded by the kitchen window, watching darkness gather in the branches of the trees bordering the recreation ground across the road.  And when at last I went to bed, my clothes were still damp and the bed sheets were cold. 

a story from Jack...'the trick'

I sat very still.
            I wore all black except my dark blue socks, which George said would be fine.
            My skin is pretty dark so I didn't bother to put boot polish on my face as he suggested. It's dark because my father was from South America, I don't know where in South America as my mother only met him once or twice and it was during what she calls her experimental period.
            She remembered that he was a street magician. That he would perform on Cheap Street with cards and live animals. Her favourite trick was the one where he made a white rat disappear and then had it reappear under somebody’s hat. She liked it when one time it appeared under a man's hat and said man screamed like a woman.
            Very big hands, she said, and boy did he know what to do with them! You know what they say about a guy with big hands Henry?
The other waitresses at the bar snickered at that.
            Big gloves?
            I was younger then. Innocent in the ways of the world. I didn't have an older brother like George did, who would explain things to me. Lucas had been with lots of girls, George told me, at least three that he'd seen.
            Lucas told George that big hands meant a big penis. George said that it was bullshit. George had smaller hands than me.
            I wasn't sure what to do with the information. I only knew that I didn't want to discuss it any further with my mother and the other waitresses. That would be disgusting. Like the time I heard her having sex with one of the barmen. I was only thirteen. My room is next to hers and the walls were thin.
            I heard him tell her that I was probably asleep and that it would be fine. Heard her submit to him. It sounded just like she was in pain. Just like Lucas had told George and then George had told me.
            Lucas said that if you were doing it right, it should sound like they're in pain but that they like it.
            The first time it didn't last very long and I breathed a sigh of relief, but then half an hour later the bartender and my mother were at it again. This time it went on longer and I had to put my pillow over my head. When they went for a third time, an hour after that, I got up and went downstairs. I could still hear them so I went into the garden. I had to go right to the back fence where the trains go by, that's how loud they were.
            He wasn't so bad, but my mother’s cries cut right through me.
            The bartender found me there, half asleep leaning on the top of the fence. He smiled and ruffled my hair, offered me a cigarette. I said thanks but told him that I was only thirteen and that I had been told that thirteen was too young to smoke.
            He was tall and wore a leather jacket. When he laughed and told me that he'd been smoking since he was thirteen I felt my ears going red. I was glad it was dark out and that he couldn't see that I was so embarrassed.
            I told him that I would have one but that I would save it and smoke it with my friend George.
Still laughing he handed me a cigarette and then I watched him saunter off through the little green gate that led out into the alley. He looked like he wanted to do a little dance.
            The happiest I ever saw the men at Mother's work was when our team was winning on the TV. When we scored they would all jump up and down and shout and hug each other, they would start chanting in unison.
            The bartender looked like he wanted to start singing, I heard him whistling as he walked down the alley. At least I thought it was him, it could have been anybody.
            I turned around and saw my reflection in the kitchen window and whispered curses to myself under my breath, as I didn't want anybody to hear.
            I knew right then that this was one of those instances that I would play over and over in my head while I was trying to sleep at night. Why didn't I just take the cigarette? Why didn't I play it cool? Why didn't I tell him off for bedding my mother or at least tell him that he better not hurt her?
            I often lie awake at night replaying things. Wondering how I should have acted. It's one of the reasons I think I might be going crazy. Like my uncle. He lives in a facility called Dreamwood Meadows. When my mother and I visit him he drools and mumbles incoherently.        Lucas told George that being crazy runs in a family and that you're not always born crazy. That you might get crazy as you get older. I could be a ticking time bomb.
            Sitting in the dark, dressed all in black except my dark blue socks, I looked at my own hands. They were bigger than George's but then I was pretty tall. Third tallest in our class. I was fifteen now and not sure if I have a big penis to match my hands. I really wanted to know. That is why I was sat out here in the dark forest but we'll come to that, first I need to tell you about Tiny Terry Peterson.
I'm not much good at talking to girls, particularly the pretty ones. Whenever I try I start to think about Terry.
            No not in that way.
            I think about how Terry doesn't go to school any more.
            That when they tried to make him he would stage what doctors called a dirty protest. That's when you shit in your hand and throw it at people. Either that or smear it on yourself so people don't want to touch you.
            Tiny Terry decided he would rather that, than face the other kids at school. The boys and girls would chase him down and hold him while they pulled down his pants to point and laugh. Terry had a rare medical condition called Micro-penis. It looked like a peanut or a weird little worm.
            In the end they took Terry away and put him in a special school. Far away from all of us and his nickname. People still talked about him though. His name had become part of our vocabulary. Rumours would be spread that other boys had a Terry. They would be asked to prove it and if they refused then it was deemed to be true.
            I knew I didn't have a Terry but I refused to prove otherwise. Because I was big and played sports most people left me alone. Others weren't so lucky and had to pull down their pants or face the ridicule.
            Philip Grossman was the shortest guy in our year and was chased right out of the school field and into the woods before they caught him and got a look. He was red faced like a tomato and balling with tears, begging them not to.
            Turned out that his was enormous and now everybody calls him Tripod. He won’t explain why he was so against showing it. I would have thought he would be proud but maybe he thinks it makes him a freak.
            I know mine isn't enormous and I know it's not a Terry. But just how big is it?
            Like I say I play sport well at school. I also do well in class and get good grades. Yet I can't talk to girls, I get so self-conscious and my ears start turning red.
            If I knew that my penis was a good size then I think that maybe all that would go away. That I would be all that I could be, like in one of those motivational posters.
            That is why I have hatched a plan. That is why I am sat in the dark dressed all in black except my socks, which are dark blue. George assures me they will be fine. No one will see me.
            I should probably explain where I am. It is a place named for the famous poet that was born in our city. Arthur Love. Aside from the singer that sings that stupid song about a chicken dance, Arthur Love is the most famous person to be born here.
            He wrote his most famous poem right next to where I am hiding. Underneath a giant oak tree in the forest near St Charles Cathedral. The tree is now covered in carvings made by couples because that is what you do if you live here. You take your partner down to the tree and have sex, and then you carve something on the tree. People have been doing that for more than two hundred years all because of the story.
            The story we are all taught at school when we're old enough to be taught about such things. Though of course everybody knows the story before then. Lucas told George but I heard it from the regulars at my mother's work. There were lots of different versions but this is the gist of it.
            Arthur Love was the son of a merchant. He did not want to follow in his father's footsteps because he was a hopeless romantic; he aspired to be a great writer. He fell for the daughter of a much richer merchant but unfortunately she was already betrothed to a much older man from a more respectable family.
            The daughter fell for Arthur but kept it to herself and rebuffed his advances. Until one day, weeks before the wedding, she gave into them. The two of them eloped to the forest and beneath the now infamous tree they made love and afterwards he carved their initials on the tree. As he carved he recited a poem that he composed on the spot. Arguably one of the greatest love poems ever written.
            The poem was called Matilda.
            Somehow the father heard about the affair and he was furious so he sent his thugs out to seize Arthur and drag him back to be questioned. Arthur was on his knees all bloodied, bruised and broken. He had a knife to his throat and they had pissed on him. The father asked Arthur if he had any last words. He asked him what could have possibly possessed him to be so foolish. Did Arthur even care for his daughter or was it all just for sport?
            And of course Arthur had no other words but the poem.
            And of course the poem was so beautiful that the father and his men were moved to tears. The father was so moved that he called off the wedding with the other man and arranged for Arthur's work to be published.
            And the rest, as they say, is history. All thanks to this tree. Arthur's Tree.
            Lovers come here and bonk in the hope that they too will be blessed with such a historic love. At least some of them do. Some just come here for bonking.
            Lucas told George that he brought a girl here only once and there was a line stretching all the way back to the steps that lead down from the cathedral. But that even though they had to wait, it was worth it.
            I think that perhaps Lucas came here on the weekend because on this warm Tuesday night there was nobody here but me and the occasional squirrel.
            My plan, if you haven't figured it out by now, is to wait for one of these couples and watch them have their sex and do their carving. After which I would follow them until the girl is on her own and ask her to take a quick peek.
            What I need you see is confidence. The sort of confidence that a guy can only get from a girl.
            You get laid.
            You get complimented on how good you were.
            You are set for life.
            It's that simple.
            Step one was to get a compliment on my penis. That had to come from a girl who'd seen a few. One who knew what she was talking about. I had heard from the regulars at mother's work that there were prostitutes who also use this tree. What you have to do is stand on the fifth step from the top by the cathedral and wait. If you waited long enough then one of the prostitutes would come and get you and take you down to the tree.
            One of those would be perfect I figured. Who's seen more penises than a prostitute? I even had a tenner in my wallet in case she wanted me to pay her. For a tenner she might even touch it.
            I knew I could just stand up on the step and wait for one but what if one of the regulars from mothers work arrived while I was waiting. They seemed like the type of men who would use a prostitute. They knew all about them, for one thing. Whenever Mother heard them talking to me about such things she would scowl at them. Sometimes she would kick them. She couldn't know about this.
            So instead I planned to wait until after, then follow the girl until she was alone. It didn't have to be a prostitute; any girl of experience would do so long as they didn't know me. Obviously I had to wait until she was alone – I couldn't ask while her fella was still about. He might get the wrong idea. I didn't want her to touch it, just look at it.
            If, however, she was so taken by it that she wanted to touch it, I wouldn't stop her. That was why I had been sporting some form of erection since I arrived. I was so very excited.
            I wondered what the tree prostitutes looked like. According to the men at mother's work they were womanly, not those stick insects you saw in fashion magazines or in Hollywood.
            These girls had curves! Breasts and hips and lips and ass! They knew how to use it all! They were legendary!
            I hoped it would be one of them and not just some girl and her boyfriend or whatever. A prostitute would be professional about it. I didn't doubt that any girl, who would come down here and fuck where anybody could discover them, would be happy to have a look for me. I could always offer to pay them if they liked. If they felt their opinion was worth something.
            Mother thought I was at Ryan's playing video games. She knew I was staying there tonight. I made George promise not to follow me out here and spy on me spying on the couples. He said that he wouldn't but I can’t help but wonder if he was out here. Every rustle in the leaves made me think that I was not alone. That either a couple sneaked right by me or maybe it was Ryan out here, watching and waiting to see if I chicken out.
            The beauty of my plan is that I bet George a tenner that I would go through with it. So if I have to pay the girl it doesn't matter because I would get a tenner from him. If I didn't have to pay her then I would actually make money.
            Win - Win.
            All the rustles had turned out to be nothing and I'd been there more than an hour. I would carry on waiting though, all night if I had to. I was a man on a mission. Tomorrow I would be armed with my newfound confidence and I'd ask out Dee from my art class. She was definitely the coolest and hottest girl I knew.
            I knew that she liked me because she kept looking at me when she thought I wasn't paying attention. She won't approach me though. I have to approach her. That made sense.

Tomorrow I will seduce her.

            It had finally happened.
            I could hear them talking. They were coming down the steps so I had to stay very still. From that vantage point was their best chance of spotting me. I couldn't make out what they were saying but it didn't sound very friendly. They weren't laughing.
When they emerged at the bottom of the stairs I could see them.
            The guy was talking much louder all of a sudden and so I couldn't help but look at him first. He was very tall with long hair in a ponytail and a denim jacket with patches sown on. He was wearing big leather boots. He didn't look very muscled but he looked mean. I was suddenly quite afraid. I was going to have to be very careful and wait until he is gone or there could be trouble.
            She, on the other hand, was everything I could have hoped for. Wearing a red dress with slices cut into it and fishnet tights with knee high boots. Giant breasts that were almost bursting out of the dress.
            Prostitute.
            They didn't waste much time. He pushed her up against the tree roughly and kissed her.
            'Mmmm' she said and then laughed. I watched her undoing his trousers as he held her shoulders. She met his gaze, didn't even have to look down to see what she was doing. A pro. I was so excited I could feel my penis desperately trying to press its way out of my jeans.
I watched his trousers drop and the moonlight bounced off his bare white ass. I almost laughed as it looked so funny but I managed to stifle it.
            'Well well' she said and twanged it like a ruler on the edge of a desk. “And what are you going to do with that?”
            He laughed and pulled down her tights before groping around at her sex. She moaned and shrieked in pleasure and I felt a bit dizzy like all the blood was gone from my head.
            cursed myself, imagining it could have been me. Why hadn't I waited on the step and gotten one for myself? Why was I always so stupid when it mattered? I would gladly exchange all my good grades at school to have more sense when it came to girls.
            This was going to be another of those instances that I played and replayed in my head and wished I had done differently. If I had gotten laid tonight I would have had absolutely no problem talking to Dee tomorrow. I would have been unstoppable.
            The woman pressed his head down into her and I watched him noisily lapping the same way our neighbour’s dog lapped at his water bowl. She pulled down her dress so her breasts finally got their wish and came tumbling out. As he lapped at her she rubbed them.          Moaning and laughing.
            Yes yes yes.
            Her breasts were just as white as the man's ass. They were like headlamps and I was the deer caught in them. My heart had almost stopped when I first saw them. It took all my strength not to break cover and run forward to get a better look.
            How could I have been so dumb?
            There could have still been time. I could have run and up the stairs right then and there and waited for my turn. Once the man was finished. Perhaps I would have gotten that beauty or perhaps they were working in a team and the next one would be even more sexy.
            I watched in rapture as she pulled him to his feet and he thrust himself up inside her. He didn't last long. Four thrusts and then he howled in pleasure and collapsed in on to her like a party balloon that had never been tied.
            The two of them stood panting against the tree for what seemed like forever. I wanted to run off up the stairs and see how much it would cost for me to have a go but I was rooted to the spot. I had to see how it played out.
            'I've got to go' the man said. 'She'll be waiting'
            “So go then” said the woman and pushed him away.
            I watched in confusion as the man staggered away and up the stairs, leaving the woman bare breasted against the tree. He didn't pay her but I suppose it made sense that she would ask for the money upfront.
            Who was waiting for him though?
            As I sat there puzzling she gathered herself together and redressed herself. It wasn't until she was halfway up the stairs that I realised that this was my chance to go through with my plan.
            'Wait!' I said.
            She turned around slowly as I scrambled to my feet. Her eyes became as big as dinner plates. She looked furious. I had not been prepared for that. I watched as she made her way down the steps toward me. Her eyes burned into me like I was made of butter. She didn't speak until she was right up close and she smelt like cheap perfume and even cheaper spirits. I almost gagged. Up close she was a very different woman to the one I had seen under the tree. She was weathered like an old ship. Perhaps once she had been beautiful but now she had seen too many storms.
            'What the fuck do you want?' she said
            My tongue was caught in my throat like the last time I had tried to talk to Dee.
            'I err... I am...'
            She softened a bit, just enough so that I didn't think she was going to take off her boot and clobber me to death.
            I looked down at my crotch and then back up at her. I took a deep breath.
            I took out my penis as quickly as I could.
            She looked at it and raised her eyebrows. She smiled a little.
            'How old are you?'
            'Fifteen'
            I knew as soon as I said it that I should have lied. Another moment to agonise over later that evening and many other evenings.
            'I can give you money,' I said feebly.
            'I'm not a prostitute,' she said.
            'Oh'
            She was going to say something else but then she paused. Her face changed once again. I had seen the face before. From the drunks at my mother's work.
            The ones I had woken when they had fallen asleep in their own filth with their trousers round their ankles.
            The ones I had found huffing the fumes out of a cheap plastic lighter.
            The ones that had tried to kill themselves but were too hammered to even get that right.
            'How much money?' she asked.

Sunday 22 April 2012

gonzo journalism from Chris...'watergate'

Watergate

We emerge blinking into the foggy daylight with the thundering beats fading behind us.  The mist coming off the Spree and the perpetual dampness of November in Berlin contribute to an overall effect of alternate reality, of day and night in reverse.  It’s 8.30am and my brother and I are waiting for the U-Bahn.  Around the station the only people hanging about are the wasted remains of yesterday’s parties, some shuddering under winter jackets and some eagerly awaiting the next club where the DJs don’t start til 9am on a Sunday.  I have my hood pulled down low over my eyes so I won’t make contact with the enlarged black pupils and gurning jaws.  I’m feeling ropey and would like to be in bed.  I've just thrown up on the steps at Kottbusser Tor.

Ordinarily techno is not my thing.  I find it repetitive, monotonous, boring and fundamentally lacking the energy and community of the punk scene.  But being in the techno capital of Europe, it would seem imprudent to make a judgement on this scene without experiencing it first hand.  My brother, a drum n bass DJ from London, was insistent that we research the acts playing across Berlin the weekend of his visit, find out as much as we could about door policy, and prepare ourselves for an intense night of techno.  Watergate was our chosen destination because it was Anja Schneider’s label night and the huge techno festival at Templehof airport was a prohibitive €42.  We’d heard a lot about the Berghain door policy: no tourists, no groups, no photos, dressing 'gay', no talking in the queue, no anoraks, etc. but we weren't sure what to expect at Watergate. 

We sat at home listening to music as we got ready, drinking rum with the people in our building.  Around 1.30 (really early by Berlin standards), after a drunken U-Bahn journey and fighting through the hoards at Warschauer Strasse, we stood in the queue.  Nobody was talking and there were groups of guys standing around having just been rejected. Two desperate rejectees offered to pay the entrance fee for my friend Lizzie and I in return for helping them get in.  Apparently a touch of femininity at this sausage fest would help their cause, but my brother wanted to cut them loose, claiming we shouldn't endanger our chances of getting in for the sake of €30.  Turning down free entry was like the first time I waxed my legs and felt incapable of ripping off the strips. After hesitating with my fingers curled nervously around the edges, I spent hours scrubbing them off with hot water.  In this case, we know what we had to do.  We ripped off the strip.  We shooed them away and halted all conversation in English between us. 

Approaching the bouncers we were asked how many people were in our group and our ages before being looked up and down with a torch.  The rope unceremoniously slackened and we were allowed in. 

The club itself has an ultra-cool set up with panorama windows looking out across the Spree, lit up by a huge Universal Studios logo.  The downstairs area is small and intimate, whereas the upstairs is bigger, with a ceiling covered in circular lights.  The toilets are unisex and constantly packed with people taking drugs in groups. When you finally gain entrance into one of the cubicles, the sides are covered in white powder and various other substances and you piss to the sound of beats, cheers and people banging on the door to hurry you up.  A man in a bum bag hovers around the toilets selling drugs unsurreptitiously to anyone and everyone.  Pretty much everyone. 

Outside of the toilets the music swallows you up and hundreds of bodies throb to the relentless beats.  We disappeared into the masse and didn’t emerge for several hours.  At one point the darkness began to fade and a mist rose up from the water.  As people stood watching the tentacles of daylight snake towards them, huge blackout curtains were dropped down to hide this evidence of a new day.  Suddenly it was night again and the music just got louder. 

Although I can't say I will now become a huge techno fan, not least because I don't think I can afford the techno lifestyle (15 euros on the door door, 4 euro beers, countless more on drugs if that's your bag), but mainly because I think I could never be comfortable with the idea of attending events where the coolness of your demeanour is instrumental in whether you're allowed through the door, regardless of whether you're a millionaire or a student.  The stories of Berghain, one of Berlin's notorious clubs; bouncers beating up people who take photos, a Spanish tourist quota, a full fashion appraisal on the door; are prohibitive for anyone wanting to take their first steps into this scene.  However, having made it into Watergate and experiencing the atmosphere, the music pounding through the floor and off the walls and the intensity and passion of techno fans, I am glad that I experienced the grimy and energetic underbelly of Berlin dance culture first hand. 

Back at the station.  The train rolls in.  The majority of people inside are staring at the floor or curled up like hungover foetuses.  We sit and shake and roll and mutter against the backdrop of the clackety clack from the tracks.  I'm glad I wore flat shoes because every part of me hurts.  My voice croaks like Madge Bishop, sweat is caked to my body and I smell as if I have rolled in an ashtray.  Maybe I have. We stumble out at Bernauer Strasse, see someone from my building going to work and hide behind a ticket machine until she is gone, cackling like school kids. 

Nearly home. 

It was a big night in Berlin.  And my bed was never more appealing.

By Christina Dixon

Friday 13 April 2012

a fifth poem...'chicken'

It’s a long walk home

From Broadway to the Common:

Past red and white chicken shops,

Half empty chicken cartons and chips,

Trodden into the road.

With chicken grease and table salt

On their slack and wide lips

A few stray revellers

Shaking their hips,

And their bones -

Chicken legs in chicken suits

All over the stones.

It’s a long walk home,

But a taxi ride with the rest of them,

And their chicken brains and chicken moans,

Isn’t what you want

When you want your chicken

All your own.

a fifth story...'classified'

She looked at him lying on the sofa and she knew she didn’t love him anymore.  She made him his dinner and he ate it without saying anything, and she knew she didn’t love him anymore.  In bed that night she kissed him on the cheek and he just lay there gazing at the ceiling.  She turned over on her side and closed her eyes.  And she knew she didn’t love him anymore.

The next morning when she woke up he was still lying there.  She got out of bed and began her morning routine.  She stood in front of the freestanding mirror and put on her make up.  Outside it was grey and early.  The street lamps were still glowing orange.  There was snow on the window ledge.  As she moved around the bedroom she noticed him watching her.  But he wasn’t showing any expression.

In the kitchen she heated some water on the electric hob.  When it came to the boil she made two cups of tea, one for her, one for him.  Before returning to the bedroom to drink her tea she leaned against the kitchen wall and put her hand over her mouth.  She hoped he might wash the dirty dishes in the sink while she was at work.  She hoped she might come back and find dinner in the oven.  She hoped he would show her a job he had found in the weekly classifieds and tell her he was going to apply for it.  She knew she was wasting her time thinking like this.

Back in bed he had pushed himself up into a sitting position with a pillow supporting him.  He took the cup of tea from her.  She ran her fingers through his hair.  He sipped his tea.  She wondered if there was any point in asking him if he had any plans for the day.  Instead she let him to drink his tea and went to turn on the television.  It was on top of the chest of drawers.  She asked him if he wanted to watch anything.  He looked up at her but said nothing, so she put the news on.  There was an article about extreme swimming.  In spite of freezing temperatures, some people were taking an early morning dip in one of the lakes in town.  Two men said they did it to wake themselves up.  She thought these people were mad, but then she wished she could do it to her husband.  Make him swim in the icy water.

The clock on wall showed a quarter past eight.  It was time for her to go to work.  She went down the corridor into the lounge and found her handbag and checked to see if she had her cigarettes.  She went into the bathroom and took down some aspirin from the bathroom cabinet.  She put the aspirin in her bag and then remembered her purse with her travel card in it.  She found it under a couple of newspapers on the dinner table.  One of the newspapers was folded open on the classifieds page.  She noticed her husband had circled a job advertisement.  It was for Blockbuster Video.  She didn’t know what to think, and it was time to go.  She took her coat from the stand by the door, but just as she slid back the latch and was about to step out, her husband called her name.  She was sure she didn’t love him anymore.