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Me and Rebecca outside of the pub. She wears a summer dress in winter and my trousers almost but not quite match the soles of my shoes.
As always Rebecca goes first, “London is the coffee table on which we place ourselves and the world is our dinner party.”
This is the kind of nonsense Rebecca is always coming up with. It’s my job to deal with it.
Rebecca Dreamer, Rebecca Glass Half Empty, Rebecca Proverbial Girl At The Sweet Shop Window.
“Do you think we’ll ever make it?” She sighs, cue menthol cigarette cloud exhalation.
“Make it where?”
“To where we want to be.”
“I don’t know where I want to be.”
This is a lie, I know exactly where I want to be, I want to be back inside, back with other people, other people to take the brunt of her questions.
Rebecca won’t stand the test of time there’s not enough to her. It’s been a while since I could tolerate this. To think I used to live with her.
“How are you feeling these days?”
Here she goes again, always digging for an emotional response that I’m either far too drunk or far too sober to give
her. Where’s a natural disaster when you need one?
My turn, “I feel like a grubby finger in a wine glass and generally I could do with a gentle nudge in the wrong direction.”
“Yeah I know what you mean” she lies.
Mine and Rebecca’s love was born under a cloud of MDMA and that’s where it stayed for 75 days. Not that she’s figured that out yet. I relight her cigarette for her and wrap my cardigan around her shoulders. Her lipstick stained teeth have made me feel sorry for her. She is talking but I have lost the thread and am no longer sure what it is she is talking about.
“Do you think we should go back inside?” I ask, cutting her off midsentence.
The words hang heavy in the air like a deep fried butterfly.
“Yeah sure.”
So sad, so sad, so broken-hearted. Such a bastard.
Inside the pub Rebecca is talking to somebody else, somebody more responsive. I am talking to nobody but listening to everybody. This is a much more comfortable place for me. I’m sure I wasn’t always like this. Maybe it’s just a phase, a secondary puberty. Something’s definitely going on.
Amidst the din Rebecca indicates a point on her pint glass and says “Let me get to here on my beer and I’ll tell you how I feel.”
So poetic, so beautiful, for a moment I remember why I loved her.
About Damien Knightley
Damien Knightley is a writer and visual artist who currently resides in London. He studied in Leeds where he specialised in experimental writing techniques and book publishing. Much of his work is semi-autobiographical, taking poetic snapshots of a contemporary Britain that overflows with cigarettes, comedowns, dirty dishes and hand-me-downs. He is currently working on his first novel which he hopes to have finished by the end of next year.
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