She’s So Heavy

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As Meeko sings, the dog barks his reply, and the two of them begin their strange duet from the other side of the bathroom door. I can only imagine what they look like together. In my mind, I picture Elton John and Kiki Dee in the music video for Don’t Go Breaking My Heart. It’s a slice of gold the world could use more of. In an eerie twist of fate, after The Beatles finish She’s So Heavy, Elton follows, although he’s singing about the Crocodile Rock, which is good, but not quite the same. Drinking my beer, I turn on my laptop which was a birthday present from Meeko and stare at the blank page of a Microsoft document. It’s a sight I’ve been confronted with ten thousand times; the same number of times I’ve been faced with the view of Meeko spreading her legs demanding I go down on her even though she hasn’t washed for the best of a week.

Reaching out my right hand, I go to tap the keys on the grubby keyboard but at the last second reach for the bottle of beer instead. It’s almost empty, so I go into the kitchen and grab another. Sitting myself down, I gaze at the blank sheet of digital paper, and without thinking move over to the window and light a cigarette. Outside, the world is the same as I left it, although there are now arguably more people going about their weird people lives. The sunlight hurts my eyes, as does the smoke of my cigarette. Waving it away, I perch myself on the windowsill and turn to face the laptop. I could write anything, and yet my brain is against me. It deliberately leads me to think I have a vivid imagination, and yet when it comes down to it, I can’t channel visions into words to save my life. The screen stares at me as I stare at it. Shaking my head, I flick the cigarette onto the sidewalk and sit back down.

Meeko’s laughing, and I can hear the dog panting excitedly; its tail hitting the shower curtain threatening to tear it from the railing attached to the ceiling. She tries to reprimand it, but can’t help but laugh even more. Reaching out my hands, I rest my palms on the edge of the keyboard and wiggle my fingers as if preparing to write something. But all I do is have some more beer and think about the two of them duetting to Elton John. Beneath a spinning disco ball, Meeko is wearing dungarees and has her hair in pigtails. Her cheeks are dusted white, and her lips are blood red, emphasising her Japanese heritage. The dog is standing on a stool dancing on his hind legs beside her, and when Meeko sings the part of Kiki Dee, he looks at her adoringly before singing the part of Elton in a series of frantic barks. Sticking out his tongue, he bounces his paws in the air mirroring the movements of her swirling hands. How I’m supposed to write this, I’ve no idea, but the longer I sit staring at the screen, it’s the only thing I can think about.

A Journal for Damned Lovers UK

A Journal for Damned Lovers US

Anthology UK / Anthology US

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