#patrick jamieson

She wasn’t good for me. She wasn’t good for anyone, that’s what they said. But it all depends on what you consider good. She wasn’t good for lawyers, for bank clerks or for door to door salesmen. For the men behind the desks or the low lives in the fifty foot glass buildings twiddling their thumbs to the rhythm of the working class’ ten thousand per annum. She was good, however, for the skeletons in the closet - the demons that some aren’t willing to face. She treated them with care, relieving them of their duties. I understood the way she saw the world, the sounds she listened out for so attentively on those bitter November nights when the windows couldn’t keep out the cold and the wine barely boiled the blood, the inescapable urges that she so willingly acted upon, and as her head bobbed back and forth to the sound of Dead Man’s Bones I knew I loved her. At least I think I did. And I think she loved me, too.

  I had been trying to figure out the colour of her hair since the day we met. It was last call at our dingy local and the lights had been turned on, the bright ones that shine down upon you interrogatingly, demanding why you’re still there alone. I sat down beside her oozing desperation, she looked me up and down and wasn’t disgusted, far from it; she dealt in desperation. We had both wandered aimlessly with a faint hope of collision and though we encouraged one another to believe in some fickle idea of fate, it seems now that meeting one another was more than unlikely.   Her hair fell teasingly across her chest, and I remember clearly it threatening to be blonde, and upon seeing her again a few months later it being chestnut. As the affair progressed and we fell deeper into one another, reaching dangerous territories of the soul, her hair darkened. Had I imagined it? Is my conscience really that crude that it would alter the colour scheme through which I saw the world to align with my mood?   In any case, we had been out of contact for months until I arrived that night, and in the room’s moody red it burned auburn, a few rare blonde strands appearing depending on how she tilted her head. Be it bars, bedrooms or back alleys it was always supremely alluring, like horse hair handpicked from the finest. Best just make the most of it, I thought.   Tomorrow it would probably be dark; the morning after had always been dark.

The vodka I had bought us earlier was cheap, but cheap was all we could afford and in such a situation you learn to adapt. Microwaved slop and brown granules of who knows what unknowingly take on the properties of ambrosia - it's really quite forgiving. The vodka kicked and not like it should, though the burn, a deep and painful heat that reminded me I was still alive, was somewhat comforting. It drew a smile with every shot into my chest, though a wince and a smile had since lost any individuality.   The second bottle was running just past the label, the music was dying down and we were in danger of having the night slip through our fingers, like the rain you promise yourself that this time you'll catch. Her legs crossed over from left to right and revealed a few more inches of perfect fleshy thigh; I was sure I loved her.   “You gonna change that?”   “Why not.”   I rolled off the rubbish dump couch and crawled desperately towards the stereo. I knew my legs wouldn’t work and preferred not to face the humiliation of trying.   “What are you after?”   “Make me cry, baby.”   She had a great collection: a lifetime’s work in twenty four short years. She might not have had a well paying job, a family or a working TV, but she sure as hell had good music; taste is all that matters come curtain call, anyway. I grabbed a CD and turned it on, some choice songs to dish out misery in bulk.   “Dechlan?”   “Dechlan, aye.”   She nodded in approval; I had pleased her. I enjoyed pleasing her. Her attempts at concealing those puffy red eyes were as pathetic as they were endearing. Seeing them smile, unsure of themselves though they were, and knowing that I had caused it – that it was mine – felt good. No-one else could do it like me.   “We’re running out and I’m skint.” I hovered the bottle over her glass ready to pour. She flicked her hand and I filled her up. “Might as well enjoy what we got left.”   She threw the drink back with cold faced resolution but I could only sip, and with every one I fought the urge to bring it back up. I was weak – weaker than her.   “You think I’m pretty?”   She had turned to me, welling up with a familiar sadness I had grown to resent like it was my own.   “You’re compassionate.”   “And pretty?”   She was pretty, beautiful some might say, but to say as much would be doing her a disservice. She was so much more than perfect skin and legs that could kill. I took a moment to size her up as though it was anything but a licentious appraisal of her worth.   “And sincere.”   The tears were falling in their hundreds now, and weren’t letting up. I let the bottle drop and spill what little it had left onto the carpet. It would soak in soon; nothing would be able to get it out. Crawling towards her like a child, I took her in my arms with a surprising level of delicacy that soon gave way to passion. She fell to the tatty carpet and I embraced her. Arms intertwined, we laid our ugly hearts together in a navy knot from wall to wall.    I removed her dress and my own pass down clothes. We pressed ourselves against each other in a bid to become one and, though memory might fail me, I do believe for a short moment that we did. Her hands surrounded my body and grasped at whatever flesh they could hold onto and I let them. I entered to delight I never knew possible, to joy we had read about and ridiculed. She let out moans and wails interspersed with one another, imbued with such tragic happiness I couldn't help but indulge in it myself. I felt her tears crash down against my nose and into my mouth. I tasted her. I tasted the salty sadness of her eyes and the iron from the wounds on her bottom lip. I tasted her compassion and sincerity.    As we finished she held me. A mass of sweat and affection laid heavy against the ground. Hours passed by, though it might have been minutes; nostalgia has a way of rendering such times greater than they were. We rested our eyes, and with each other.

  “I can’t keep staying here. I need to leave tomorrow.” Unavoidably, the serenity was soon broken. Her sudden avoidance was baffling. I opened my palm and began caressing her damp cheek.   “I’ll stay with you longer this time, baby.”   “It’s not that.”   “Then what is it?”   “I just can’t keep doing this.”   The words were spat out in deliberate resignation. Her eyes, those that were once green now growing blue, were bloodshot and her nose was dripping profusely. The knife wound scar across the left side of her neck that she normally took such great care in hiding was visible. For a short moment her guard was down and it was only for me. Has she let it down since? I'm sorry, such conjecture is needless, but it's this that drives me to write this.    “We’ll just have tonight then.”    We collapsed together once more, though now like family. I held her and her I. As mother and son we embraced the departing intimacy. The night was ending and a new day beginning. High above the ground through the window pane we lay, the closest we could lie for the last time.

I awoke the next morning shivering and sick. Everything of hers remained; the bed, the stereo, her CD collection, me. I forced myself up and drained what little booze I could find. Last night’s bottle held little reward. A burn to remind me I was alive.

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