Posties’ Droppings
A series of concise writings in response to photos taken of dropped rubber bands in the street.
We parked up outside the clinic. I went into my pocket and found the marble I’d brought with me, tried to crack it in half with the one hand, pushing opposite ways with thumb and finger. Tried to remember its colour, probably a cat’s eye. We watched the bits tumbling off the trees ahead of us, and we started to take it in turns to name all the shades of green we could think of.
She had Wotsits dust all over her fingers. (Tips like BUMBLEBEES. Laden with pollen.) She waved her fingers through the air like sparklers on bonfire night imagining the tracing of orange light. She wrote her name – ten times simultaneously. She ‘did’ rainbows, and a selection of small animal shapes. She mimicked an advert she’d seen, as a child, for holidays to Disney Land/World – Wotsits dust playing the part of magical sparkles. As the magic settled around her, she noticed orange dust on her lapels, and the thighs of her trousers. She could smell it on her upper lip and was now sure she could hear it rustling in her ears.
A deep and ingrained fear of crevasses and avalanches, or other such natural phenomena you’re unlikely to ever encounter. (Sinkholes on Streatham High Road.) (Lava flows across Hackney Marshes.) You repeat to yourself that upon landing you should remember to dribble to work out which way is up and down. The sheer white of the snow - or should that be blue of the ice? - is going to disorientate, so be aware you will need to question your instincts. Just think how pleased you’ll be with yourself as you dribble up your cheek. And as the saliva finds the contours of your lower eyelid before pooling over your iris you’ll know. You’ll know which way is out. Out of this mess.
I invented five boyfriends for myself. Aloysius. Gabriel-Ernest. Mark. Bo Landers. And Simone. Aloysius is too into his antiquarian maps to notice me. Gabriel-Ernest is gorgeous but has very sharp teeth - I’m not sure where he goes at night. Mark is good for an ordinary time, Guy Ritchie film after a Wagamamas. Bo Landers is my favourite, too cool for me really, I watch him from the window while he stands on the jetty and broods, smoking a Sobranie - I trace his heart tattoo and ask again who Leslie is, but he won’t tell me. Simone is four inches tall, he stands on the table beside my drink and sings ‘The Parting Glass’ while I eat.