This afternoon I received a surprise visit from Maggie, a former lover. When I was 22 and Maggie was 18, we spent days on end drunk and making love in her cluttered loft apartment. We slept all day and never went outside. Eventually, of course, we grew to hate each other, but we always remembered those early animal days, those days before we became trapped and entangled in the personal. She had heard of my illness and wanted to see me. She said she did not phone because she preferred to arrive unannounced like the wind. I told her not to be so fucking twee and that she could only enter if we were both naked. Like the wind. I warned her I would not be pretty.
I removed my robe and she took off her clothes. We are not what we used to be. But wrinkles become palatable with wine, so I brought out what I could find. Soon we were happy and laughing and feeling fine. I even felt comfortable enough to show her my red patches.
She asked me if was bipolar back then in the loft. Of course not, I said, merely drunk or hungover. But what's the difference, really?
I dug around and found my old copy of "Unknown Pleasures" and put it on the turntable. We danced to "Disorder" and didn't speak a word until the album's end. She broke the silence and ruined the moment by asking me if my bipolarism is killing me. I told her no fuck off oh cry baby cry.
2 comments:
"I told her not to be so fucking twee and that she could only enter if we were both naked."
Nigel, I love your rude and passionate cadence. I have been reading from afar... Being treated as you do is my ebullient. Like a harmless fawn, I yearn to be clutched and pulled by your cagey, old, rough lynx's paw...regina harper :->
Ms. Harper, oh my! Consider my curiosity piqued. I cannot help but fall into wild daydreams involving lynx and fawn. Thank you.
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