Sunday and Dust

You got off the phone with your mum in tears. Ugly crying. The worst kind. You were hungover. We both were. Burying your head in my armpit, you shrieked and kicked your feet as the acid in my belly threatened to creep from my throat and burn my tongue. The day was Sunday and dust. The morning after the antics of the evening before. Outside, a light rain fell from heavy clouds, blowing in the wind as if orchestrated by someone above. People came and went. Cars rolling along like stones, parting puddles in slow motion—the ripples looming large like the waves of a tsunami. Through the blinds, I spotted a cat, drenched to the bone, scampering around from place to place with a look of misery on its face. It’s written somewhere—I don’t know where—that there was never a time when we never were. And that, in the bubbles of space spreading like jam on toast in the outer regions of the universe, there will never be a time when we never are, either. Slipping an aspirin into your mouth, I fed you some water, and you sank like a stone. Your tears soaked my top, and as your fingers dug into my flesh, the pain was constant, not shifting until we woke several hours later after day made way for night. One day, we won’t be here. All that will be left is a void that goes on forever. But despite this, or perhaps because of it, I looked at you and grinned from ear to ear.

X and I: A Novel and A Journal for Damned Lovers on Amazon UK

X and I: A Novel and A Journal for Damned Lovers on Amazon US

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