I cast myself before her, thin feathery pencil strokes suggesting fleeting glances, eyes half closed as I feel her soft powder face on mine. Her lips breathe on my lips; cushioned pink, they have the taste of almond.
She is an ideal personification in pastel colours, and watery, like rain coming down glass; misted aestheticism transformed into artificial reality.
So many strange relationships bourne out of necessity fall back into my history forming out of me a hard but brittle cocoon. Founded out of pure lust, at once debauched and puritanical, they look at each other from yellowing cocoons waiting to break out, to break through the shell. But they can’t. No explanation was allowed because history caused their deaths when they met.
Mark listened to the tape wind on; and then the hiss came over the loudspeakers like distant rain, until the cassette came to its end and clunked to a stop.
Disco
Chubby or Chubs was always the popular one. He got his name because of his approachability as well as his build.
Ross provided the names, he gave everyone nicknames. Mark was Colonel because he looked like Colonel Gaddafi; square-jawed, pock-marked face, short curly black hair, haughty. Mark liked it, but it didn’t always stick.
And Ross gave himself his own name, Shorty, a gangster name; he rode a white GTI and flicked V’s out the window or flashed his headlights at the drivers he passed by. Shorty was the man around town.
Others, however, were untouchable. Eammon, the new arrival from Dublin, he defied a nickname.
Photo by Carlos ZGZ via Flickr