Ten steps, maybe twenty, who can tell?
The outline of the pub grows smaller in the background, its shadow lurching around the corner.
”The more distance between you and something, the smaller it is in reality...the bigger it is in your mind”
I'm socially spent and my jeans reach for my ankles without a belt to keep them up and she calls. Her vocal range is non-existent, she requires words to indicate mood, so its a relief she can express herself properly "The wind shoved the window violently ajar and I awoke, it was horrid, there was this muddy handprint on my dresser and the loose hinge on the door gave way, most likely from the force, Jesus ‘E’, I’m to stiff to call the Police, can’t you come over?" she bellowed, "coming" I uttered in a drole voice and shuffled off in the same direction I'd came. Now, it was bigger in reality, smaller in the mind. I reach the door, the doorbell is standard variety, but that freaks her out, so did the abrupt wail of car horns after-hours and plastic spiders you'd get for 2 a penny at Hyper-Value. She soon appears in the doorway and pokes at the debris with her toes, some tones of disgust pass her lips. She balks on about how the house has a creak in every wall and floorboard, I nod emphatically, reddened hands clenched in my beige pockets, knees bent as I'm accustomed to standing. “Let’s go someplace else” I say…..mid sentence.
”The home that houses the apex of communal trinkets is empty but for the people”
Yuppy metrosexuals swagger on the asphalt, furlongs from sobriety, tripping on some tarmac football pitch, slamming balls at stationary Vehicles, the alarms sending them into hysterics. "Chavs" she mutters, locking up, head down, a fearful rebuke. I have often dreamt of speaking on autopilot, tonight I got my chance, and it was serene since I could still be interesting running on half empty. We pass a corrugated iron door, blue, navy, who could say, "In Constant Use" it says, and I hammer on the Irony while she collects her thoughts, as the skull-white moon steamrolls the mountains, rising like a unified cluster of fatigue, its long dead spirit cradled by the night around it.
”In Wales, there are two types of place, hills of grass, and hills of brick”
Later....the door screeches on its hinges, it slams and the echo is pitiful...5am...20 plus years of seeing this milestone of the day pass into antiquity....the thing is still on my desk, painfully reflecting in my retinas and I plead....how do you tell someone?
”..The bigger it is in your mind, well, my mind"
A basketball is perched on the pebble-dash wall of the neighbour’s house. The wind or a car darts by; A population of unburied cigarette-ends make art of the porch.