Night Call

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There’s a stairwell bathed in the dark glow of late evening. It spirals and spirals like the curls of her hair, those curls that wrap around my arms as I struggle to balance on the tightrope between day and dream. There’s the sound of rain hitting the window as she searches for a way out and there’s the blinking image of a cat rushing beneath one parked car to the next on its way to someplace dry. A few hours ago, it was today, but in this moment, there’s no telling where I am. It feels like it could be now, but then again it feels as though it could be years ago. Which town? Which city? I have no idea. Walking down endless drowned streets, I swore I’d seen her smiling at me from beneath the arch of a bridge, but it must’ve been a shadow, or the beer in my belly mixing with everything else causing the layers in my mind to snap like those tiny strings they talk about. The ones that link us to other dimensions. At the top of the stairwell is a room with a light bulb surrounded by two circling moths. It speaks to me of electricity and the void, and it showers my body with a light that bores into my eyes and pinches at my delicate nerves. Inside the room, my clothes are in a pile at my feet, and as I look down at my cock I feel the hands of X move around me, but then I come to my senses and realise her hands are my own. I’m hungry, but there’s nothing to eat. Should’ve eaten back in town, but a fight broke out near the kebab van, and I was certain someone was going to stab me. They didn’t, but the threat was there, and I fled regardless. The smoke of my cigarette gets into my eyes and burns. It swallows the two moths until they disappear as does the light bulb and the carpet under my itchy toes. The echoes from outside are still with me, as is the sensation of her invisibly dancing and grinding against my hips. She’s singing that song, the one we used to sing in school, the one beginning with the line Ring-a-ring o’ roses. As she sings it and presses herself against me, the animals come from afar and sit atop the rows of parked cars on the street below. They were attracted by her voice, and for a glimpse of the one they call their own.

A Journal for Damned Lovers on Amazon.co.uk

A Journal for Damned Lovers on Amazon.com

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