Status: brief hiatus
Manic Pixie Dream Girl
devil
The chill crisps my skin, and I stand in a haze of indifference and cigarette smoke and breathe into the night. There are no stars, but I can see the red flicker of a commercial airplane scuttling across the cloud-padded sky like a demonic scarlet eye winking down at me. I want to touch it, to pluck it out of the sky and shake it about and listen to the passengers scream until they knock themselves out on the bulkheads. I wonder what the in-flight entertainment is.
I’m standing on the steps outside the church. I come here twice a week and sit in a circle of addicts and listen to them talk about themselves for an hour. I’m not sure why.
The ache at the base of my spine reminds me of Stella Artois, because it’s there even though I don’t know what purpose it serves. And maybe she’s the devil, because people always say ‘speak of the devil and he shall appear’, and I’m standing there, thinking about her, and then suddenly there she is like an apparition, like I’m Moses and she’s the burning bush come to tell me to sacrifice my son.
She says, ‘Jack, right?’
I say, ‘Right.’
She leans against the wall and tears a cigarette from its brothers and holds it between her lips and lights it, and her hair falls in a curtain between her face and mine and for a second it’s like I’m at the theatre waiting for the play to begin. I wish I had a programme.
She says, ‘I’m Stella.’
I say, ‘I heard.’
She’s wearing a leather jacket that creaks when she moves, and it smells heady and close, and I turn my head away and drop my cigarette and stub it out under my foot.
She says, ‘I’m dying.’
I say, ‘Aren’t we all?’
She laughs, and she smokes, and the airplane streaks a line across the starless sky.
I’m standing on the steps outside the church. I come here twice a week and sit in a circle of addicts and listen to them talk about themselves for an hour. I’m not sure why.
The ache at the base of my spine reminds me of Stella Artois, because it’s there even though I don’t know what purpose it serves. And maybe she’s the devil, because people always say ‘speak of the devil and he shall appear’, and I’m standing there, thinking about her, and then suddenly there she is like an apparition, like I’m Moses and she’s the burning bush come to tell me to sacrifice my son.
She says, ‘Jack, right?’
I say, ‘Right.’
She leans against the wall and tears a cigarette from its brothers and holds it between her lips and lights it, and her hair falls in a curtain between her face and mine and for a second it’s like I’m at the theatre waiting for the play to begin. I wish I had a programme.
She says, ‘I’m Stella.’
I say, ‘I heard.’
She’s wearing a leather jacket that creaks when she moves, and it smells heady and close, and I turn my head away and drop my cigarette and stub it out under my foot.
She says, ‘I’m dying.’
I say, ‘Aren’t we all?’
She laughs, and she smokes, and the airplane streaks a line across the starless sky.
♠ ♠ ♠
