We talked about how we weren’t going to be together anymore and then I went downstairs to play some songs because it seemed like a comforting thing to do and he followed me into the studio and accompanied me on bass and we went back and forth selecting songs. The irony reached a pitch and I had the urge to record us for posterity though that was pointless since he was leaving; if this was the last time we would play these songs together a record of it was decidedly valuable, though desperately impractical. One only plans for the banal and unsurprising. The unexpected whirrs past; we lack a record but are rewarded with intensity.
I get into a frenzy of accumulation. I get this way with children’s songbooks. Rather than making the effort to learn one song, then another, I go crazy to buy up all the songbooks and then put them on the shelf where dust collects.
I do the same with theatrical costumes. I get a rush from buying up one spine-tingling outfit after the next. I put them all in my closet where they hang expectantly.
A quite radical act then might be to dress up and take to the streets, serenading children. It would be a good use of my resources, freeing me from the crime of unscrupulous consumption.
Our stories keep re-telling themselves. I find myself done up like a woman in the movies, from days of old, red feather in my hair, walking down the street with a suitcase and a wooden stool. Am I going to start busking? Or should I wander into a bar and find a sympathetic stranger? Only I know which story sticks to me like webbing, which story feels right, like falling into love or a soft bed or both simultaneously.
Perhaps I am insatiable for him – I want to apply his brand to my wrist, neck, temples. I want to reapply at every light to ward off forgetfulness. I want to tell the world – he’s mine – even when he’s closed off to me.