You emerge in the kitchen wearing pink short shorts and a small
tight t-shirt, which says “My boyfriend is outa town.” You hit the kettle and
rub your eyes, rummage around in the cushions of the couch as though looking
for something. You stop, meander over to the kitchen area and find some
cigarettes behind the jar of sugar.
“Morning” You stop rubbing your eyes and smile at me hazily.
“Morning” I say.
“Whoa, what a night.” You start laughing, to yourself. There are
bits and pieces of broken plates all over the place. You start picking them up,
tentatively, gingerly. You are holding about 6 pieces when the kettle whistles
and you look relieved as you throw them in the bin. You make coffee and the
smell is oddly comforting, the rich sedate undertones to it. You slide up onto
the bench and cross your legs.
“So, who was that guy that kept talking about the navy??”
“I have no idea.” You laugh hysterically to yourself until it is
obviously physically painful, pull a face and touch your sides. “What is that
awful smell?”
“Someone put the photographs of us all eating bananas in the oven.
Some sort of petrochemical fog came out of them. I opened the doors…”
“Oh god.” You climb off the bench, wander out of the drawn french doors and up
to the rooftop. I have an English assignment to write but I watch you from the
kitchen as you put down your coffee and pull off the offending t-shirt by the kid’s
pool Zohar installed there. You climb in, sit down and put your head back. Your
hands shake out your hair and then fold over your chest. You shut your eyes and
I wonder what you are thinking of. We really should stop having parties like
that.
