Butterfly Umbrella

The umbrella has butterflies on it. A little nod from Delirium. Hail, Eris. Hail, Discordia. You won’t have to take the pink one out with you after all. It’s red, too, for luck – hopefully enough to outweigh the fact that you opened it indoors. Its insides remind you of spiders’ legs, all hunched up ready to spring, and the light in the handle probably hasn’t worked in years. But still, it’s something. A little gift to keep you out of the rain.

The rain has stopped anyway, by the time you get downstairs. And you can’t remember what you were going outside for. Fruit, maybe. Good resolutions. The street is slippery. You get the usual stares. The walk there is the trickiest bit, trying not to talk to yourself out loud, lips moving just enough to let the words out without giving the game away. Cracks in the pavement, deliberately ignoring your own rules, wondering if, had you been born with brown eyes, everything would have been different. Someone told you to never go back. You fell in love with this country and it seems to have broken your heart.

The smallest things bring the tears to your eyes. Like watching him play ball with her the other day, smiling the way he used to smile at you, everyone having fun and you on the outside, wandering around, looking for someone to play with. Or the fact that after all these years you’re still just a stone’s throw from breaking, stumbling from one glass house to another, homes that are never homes. Trying to pick bits of broken personality out of the disorder, carve out an identity that everyone can live with, make up a new story to explain away the scars.

Your head throbs with last night’s drinking, conversations you shouldn’t have had. You remember the walk home but not the reasons why. There’s an aftertaste of rejection at the back of your throat. Another evening wasted. Another night alone.

It gets old, doesn’t it? All this falling apart. Like you’re always in tatters, waiting for another loose thread to snag, wondering when the unraveling will be complete. Neurosis as flower, tearing off petals. And what will be left at the end of it all?

She loves me, she loves me not...

Time will tell. But it’s time to go home now, with the fruit in your bag that signifies your good intentions, and the butterfly umbrella, a talisman to remind you that it’s the little things, just the little things you need to make you feel loved.

Romance of the Hands

They no longer remember how they found each other. In this dark, pulsing universe there are no beginnings, just long, slow moments that roll them over like waves, an endless ebb and flow that keeps them constantly in motion. Their fingers touch and twist, curl and cling, seeking out every curve and crevice of each other, teasing out each sigh and surge and smile. Every ache and arch and press of desire is played out in miniature: she draws close only to pull away, playing lightly at the end of his fingertips’ reach; he hunts her down and she allows herself to be enfolded, enveloped, pulled out from her hiding places into the warmth of his palms. He holds her to his chest, heart faltering, murmuring a blessing as his lips brush her knuckles, the warmth of his breath raising the hairs on her skin. Then back to the dance: fingers entwined, tangled into an embrace that twists and shifts with the lights on the ceiling, pushing, clenching, stretching up and out and round until there is nothing but the light and the magnetic tug of skin on skin.

“Who are you?” he murmurs, surfacing for a moment to search for some coherence of vision, eyes snapping open, seeking her face.

She places her hand on his forehead in reply, folding eyelids down gently, drawing the curtain on their newborn intimacy.

With eyes closed, there is only this: the lights, the bar, the dancers disappear and they are left alone, absolved of all need for narratives or explanations, free to explore every crook and corner of each other. Her soul flutters on her fingertips: she presses it to his lips, lets him take her into his mouth, one finger at a time, his teeth closing round her like rings, cages, as she ventures in and then pulls away. He lays his hand like a web across her face, a blind man tracing temples, forehead, lips: Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair. She breathes him in, his sweat, his scent, holding it in her lungs before pouring it out, feeling the chill on her skin as he breathes it back again. They are twined together now, arms wound round like vines grown into each other, roots taken hold. Their sweat falls and shimmers in her mind’s eye like droplets of dew on some secret garden. Her teeth tug at his lips like the flesh of some fruit that will not yield its sweetness all at once, but mixes in something bitter, the sharp salt tang of blood on her tongue.

As dawn comes they make their way past stumbling dancers up onto the rooftop, where they lie on their backs, arms spread wide to the sun. Sunlight glows red through still-closed eyelids. The voices of others drift like birds high above, swooping down from time to time to be swatted away, threadbare iconoclasts intruding on their sanctuary. No words need be spoken: their fingers made their vows, traced the paths of desire like lovers in the dark, learning every inch of each other without making a sound. Now in the light they need only a touch to discover themselves to each other, the feel of each other’s skin grown so familiar in each lingering moment of this long night. Their feet find each other, toes clasping, soles pressed together as if in prayer, while above them green fronds stretch out across the sky, and when at last they find themselves alone, he draws her close, pulling her into his arms to face the morning hand in hand.

Black Jaguar

“Take a look at this”.

The guy waved me over. I’d been steadily sort of avoiding him for the whole trip, unsure whether or not he was one of those people I was supposed to know but had been too drunk to remember. Beer can in hand though: always a good sign. I was still half-cut from the night before. Been inflicting myself in the nicest way possible on the woman downstairs and her teenage daughter, but it was getting increasingly difficult to keep up appearances what with all those night me and their husband/father figure spent in girly bars in Patong.

A fellow drunk was more my scene. I wandered over to his side of the deck and stood next to him on the rail, watching the Singapore coast guard’s less-than-stellar attempt to come alongside.

“I could do a better job than that,” I opined, “And given current blood-alcohol levels that’s really not saying a lot”.

“Hell, so could I,” an American drawl came back, “And I’ve never driven a boat in my life”.

That answers that one then, I thought. At least I’m not supposed to remember you from last night.

We exchanged a bit of narrative: my sail to the equator, his golfing holiday; my life on the high seas, his days in the office. I began to feel the need to derail the conversation.

“I woke up in bed with someone twice my age this morning,” I commented.

“There’s hope for us all,” he said, or something to that effect.

We got onto tattoos, somewhat inevitably: how many have you got, the old get-your-tatts-out game. I pulled my shirt up a bit to show my backpiece, and he stuck his cold beer can against my back, hoping for the girly squeal that I wasn’t going to give him.

You got the wrong girl for that, mate, I thought. The guy I woke up with just put me to bed. You’re not getting any closer. One step forward, two steps back. One step forward, two steps back.

I’ve done this dance before.

But I gave him two kisses on the cheek, European style, in the spirit of drunken generosity. He tried for the lips, but I backed off, laughing.

There’s hope for you all, sure, but not all from me.

He shrugged: fair’s fair. It was worth a try.

Yeah, fair’s fair. It’s always worth a try.

The Singapore skyline came creeping up, and I started plotting the next phase of my escape: Indonesia to Phuket with no shoes and only a handful of soggy banknotes someone stuffed in my pocket shortly before I got thrown in the pool.

“I’ll give you a lift to the airport,” my new ally offered as we pulled into the ferry terminal.

“Alright,” I said, “See you on the other side of immigration, assuming they let me through”.

I played a little zigzag game with the barriers, smiling at the guards as they stared at my bare feet and feeling the universe still running with me: thank Dionysus, there was still enough alcohol in my veins to keep the world on my side.

On the other side of the gates my friend was nowhere to be seen: I was halfway to the taxi rank before he caught up with me.

“My car’s in the parking lot,” he said, “Follow me”.

“I’m sure my parents told me something about getting into cars with strange men,” I said as I followed.

“I’m not strange,” he replied. Pause. “Yeah, ok. You win that one”.

I just smiled. “Join the club”.

“You forgot your shoes,” he commented, pointing to my feet.

“Ah, they found a new home somewhere near the equator,” I replied, “They’re now an Indonesian fisherman’s pride and joy”.

We crossed the car park, me picking my way gingerly over sharp stones and wondering why they don’t make pavements smoother.

“That’s my car over there,” he said, pointing to a black jaguar sat shiny and imposing across the way.

I thought he was joking.

He pulled out the keys.

I slipped into the passenger seat, grinning. Yep, the universe was definitely still on my side.

There was barely a whisper as the engine fired up, and soon we were shooting through the streets of Singapore, en route to the airport and the next phase of my plan.

“Wow, silent running,” I commented as he put his foot down on the accelerator.

“Company car,” he replied, “I wouldn’t usually be so nice, but the airport’s pretty close. See?”

He pointed to a plane flying low overhead.

“I wonder if they sell beer at the terminal,” he mused.

I sat in silence for a while, watching the streets of Singapore roll by.

“Nice car,” I observed.

“Isn’t it?” he replied. “Watch this”.

He took his hands off the wheel and the car kept a perfect line, hugging the road, driving itself. Sitting on the cream leather seat I reflected on how easily one could be seduced from the path of eco-righteousness. But not this girl. Not today.

“Famous last words, isn’t it?” I said, “Look mom, no hands!”

“You may have a point there,” he replied, smiling and resting his hands back on the wheel.

The airport spun around in minutes and it was time to say some sort of goodbye.

“Do you have a business card or something?” I asked him.

He looked but couldn’t find one.

“Pen and paper?” I tried.

Again, no.

I pulled a blunt pencil out of my bag and tried sharpening it with my army knife, to little avail.

“Facebook?” I asked finally, figuring karma was already stacked against me ever seeing this guy again.

“Sure,” he said. I told him my name, suspecting he wouldn’t remember by the time he sobered up.

Our goodbyes said, I shook his hand and then opened the door, promising him a page or two in the story of my life, should I decide to write it.

Fair’s fair, after all.