Stand here a sec, gather. Lay palm on wall of house, bricks bubbled like pumice, thousands and thousands, you haven’t laid a single one. Sue was right. “Come to sit on your own, sweetheart? Poets in that corner. Arsenic flakes on your cappuccino?” Tell me, though, what would you do? “Me? Let sleeping dogs lie. Till they’re all snoring.” What if I want to lie down with the dogs, Sue, and talk to them? “Then you’re asking for trouble, aren’t you?” Yes, maybe I am. “Whatever turns you on, sweetheart.” But don’t we need to understand the past? “Does the past give a monkey’s?”
Reminds me. Pods in. “The past is also just an idea. Appearing in consciousness. There really is only this moment. Everything is just appearing… Here… In this space.” Smiling Sue, arsenic flakes. “And if you find your mind wandering.” Dog snoring, monkey swinging. “Then… Just come back to the breath.”
Breathe deep, Station Street. There soon. Saturday: best word in the English language, curve of the letters, city at night. Zoom in on neon, down there in oily puddle. Heels click on stone. Red mouth giggles. Cigarette smoke vanishes. Taxi rumbles away. “The crowded streets, the empty bars / Chimney tops and trumpets…” Whatever happens tonight, whatever doesn’t happen tonight, hunch shoulders, dig pockets, this is home.
Over shoulder, wide grins shuffle off bus, every one thanks driver thanks back. Who we are. “Most people want to be kind.” That’s why we need to change things, Sue, from the bottom up. “What families are for, isn’t it?” Not for everyone. “But no one has to be alone, not if they don’t want to.” I’m not sure we still have the choice. Everything’s set up to pull us all apart. “You know what you need, sweetheart?” I wish I did, Sue. “Don’t tell the boss, but I’ve slipped a bit of my gran’s homemade Viagra in your coffee. On the house.” How old do you think I am?
Left at lights, ten-to. One more time, from the top. I want to apologise, while we still have time. Fucksake you’re not dying. I want to explain, set the record straight. Squirming politician, that’ll work. I can’t change what happened, but some things need to be said. Some dogs prefer to snore.
Lime Street. Old vinyl shop boarded up, back in the day, goths jangling skulls and crosses, smoking, rolling eyes at my paisley shirt and white jeans. They were right. Quick check: no messages. Location services off, look to the stars, any messages there? You blessed us once, so I thought.
Intro: deep bass, spreading like syrup over crowd, synth high but faint, church organ rolling in from far. Camera follows from dressing room, house lights off, the roar – we need to worship, says John, no catholic he, but what are we then? Lost at sea, says John, so all hold hands. Nearly on stage, crowd surges, let us touch. And what would you say tonight, old man, if you were here with me now, just for one minute in my life? After all, you’ve been singing in my head for 30 years. Serenade us from the next table?
Jog across square, The Man in the Moon, still proud of our local, whip-rounds for the needy, first kiss, first job, Friday night cigarettes in the yard. Night to forget, that one, but tentacles all over me now. Always picking at seam, pulling threads: no cares no problems no worries no debts, weekend ahead, just some silence from me on the ocean bed. Good fish impersonation by you, didn’t help. “But why do you even need to think that?” Others came before me, I won’t be the last, we’re all mayflies. (Told you so.) “But just because you like the book, doesn’t mean you have to see yourself in it.” No, but. How does it go again? “We live everything as it comes, without warning, like an actor going on cold. And what can life be worth if the first rehearsal for life is life itself?” Like he said. How do we fall in love if it’s not forever? You were right though: it’s only more precious.
37 Blake Street, Sapori Antichi. Windows glowing, tables full, good. Do they sometimes come here together? Stop that. Deal: two glasses tops. Hand through hair, stretch eyes. Music low: ten points. Old family: no cream here, just cooking juices, maybe some stock. “Can I take your coat, sir?” Firm hand on shoulder, heart warms, keep there a second longer if you want. “Prego.” Number 6: hang on, wasn’t that their hotel room at the end of the film, their last night before… “What are you thinking? I’m thinking how happy I am…” Fade to white, and cut. Maybe check if the book’s still there.
Red tables, yellow candles, church light, Venice: coitus interruptus on the wooden pews, what were we thinking? Summer and the world in our hands, exams done, lunch on a terrace, all our cash on a bottle of wine, you sleepy in my favourite photo, but I can’t see a bloody thing across this room. Don’t squint. “Signora called.” Sorry? “She’ll be a few minutes late. This is on the house, sir.”
Sit. Get this heartrate down. “Now close your eyes. And as you focus on the breath. Remember. This is not only about ourselves.” But we had everything. “One of the reasons we practice.” Then threw it all away. “Is to improve our relationships with other people.” For no reason at all. “I want you to imagine a face.” What for? “Maybe someone you love.” The sheer waste.
“Would you like to see the menu while you’re waiting?” No, that’s kind, thank you. Few drinks first, clear table, space to talk. Actually, on second thoughts, thank you. “Signora’s parking, sir. She’ll be with you shortly.” Hmm. Minus five. Kids maybe – assume it, gird yourself – but still, still, a school on every corner, least in my part of town. What have we become? Sinatra. Grandad’s looking in. Could do with you now, under my skin. But that is where you are, never left, voice in my head, cheek moulding mine even now. No use when it came to women though. Kissing a lady’s hand never helped me.
Cold hand on my cheek, second too long, how did you get behind me? Blue wool sleeve, silver watch, a ring. Thought it was the waiter – laugh, five points – yes, let me, let me stand up. No perfume, no make-up, no blond, oh, the shadows, was that me? But the smile, oh, the smile, the smile, I’m smiling, I’m laughing, we’re laughing, let’s just laugh. “Signora, prego.” Cheers.
Knives clink on plates, voices hum, far corner laughs, kitchen door swings.
Here we are then. Yes. Here we are. Eyes locked. Here we are. Are we? Skin under candlelight, old mole and baby scar, are your eyes a little paler, more matt, is that a thing? Any atoms still around from back then? Scientists say we’ve all breathed in Napoleon, or parts of him.
“I’m happy you got in touch. It’s good to see you. You look well.” Why am I shrinking?
Start with high card, back to Venice, tablecloth reminded: hot sun on drunken cheeks, but words turn wine into dusty museums: Da Vinci?, can’t remember; and books: Middlemarch, no, don’t think so; and maps: where did we go next? Colour drains, can’t go back to church now, can’t talk about your thigh. What are we sharing here, are we bringing it back to life, or laying it to rest? Will we do this once a year?
“Your starters. Enjoy.”
Tiny earring catches light, used to nibble there.
“Impressive,” the headhunter nodded last week. “Leadership. Responsibility. What they’re looking for.” Tonight the last ten years unravel in ten minutes: no thread no pattern. Life as buses, jumping from one to next, running away? Need to stop and dig one day, find patience and dirty hands, look at grandad, pride in tomatoes, garden, a story. 40 years in, what am I not getting right?
“You’ve done really well. I’m proud of you.” Dissolving.
Leave out cities: could’ve / should’ve been ours. Leave out girlfriends (sorry): no match for family.
Two, you say. Must’ve been a handful. Starting school, of course. Elbow misses table, tumbles into deep space for 4,000 days: no air here, no names cuts bruises tears bedtimes nativities. How many words did I miss? Another glass, yes, please. Oh, but the smile, and wait, wait here, just a second, what’s this… glow? Yes, a glow god knows where from but hold on to this. Let it in. Tell it to yourself: they are part of you and you of them, in a tiny tiny tiny way. The atoms.
“You should meet them. I think they’d like you.” Glow fades, jaw clamps. Oh foul vision of Christmas Endless, affable boxing day uncle in cosy reindeer knits. Why did he never marry, the eligible? Oh well, you’ll have to ask her ladyship, wink.
And now Him, no warning. Nod hard. Each word a cloud, observe it, let it pass. Not easy for her either, I hope. Words coming and going, dissolving, here then gone, but no, this is furniture, quotidian, sacrosanct, a fabric richer than Bayeux. How many threads in 4,000 nights? Find the word as I pluck out the arrow: not ‘resolution’, not ‘density’, knots per…
Now her photographs, on her phone: not portraits but still life, textures and shadows. Art: the big gun, the destroyer. First exhibition next week? Interview in tomorrow’s? Against the ropes now, head down, fists up, find the steel. Soft skills and gentle touch learned from him, their new language for their new world, all more powerful than sex, gloves up, head down, and they’re all beautiful these photos, I love them, yes, I actually do, so, yes, do send me some. Ding-ding! Might not come back from this.
Cold water in the gents. How we doin’? Jake Lamotta without the blood or the cuts or the bruises or the sweat or the fat or the fury or the girl. Ageing bull. No punching the walls. Go on, son, knock it back, scratch the itch, jump into that bloody fucking sandcastle. Then walk away. See how they like that.
Food helps, take refuge, hunker down in carbonara thick as yours after the exams, cloudless sky and Europe at our feet, night trains and cities, newspapers, love mapped across the map, railways to your heart (and thigh)… Maybe we threw it all away, spirit of 89. Drain glass, down fork. Wasted the legacy. Hold breath, gather. Thing is. We held everything in our hands, knew where we were, knew left from right, east from west, had the words, a grip, a sense. And then. Too many wrong turns, can’t find your way back, you’re somewhere new but don’t know where it is. Just want to find our way home.
“Are you ok?”
Land on tablecloth, city a grid of red and white, gleaming towers of salt and pepper, olive oil spills, candlewax lava trails and ancient bread ruins. Seek refuge, take warmth, be grateful…
“Come back!” through cupped hands, our old routine: I grip the invisible rope, pull myself back into the room.
First tables drift away, bank cards swipe, receipts chatter chatter.
Try the book, other one, find some calm. Better. Steady the breath, hold gaze, offer some truth. Young female character talks about self-destruction. Says it gave her sense of control or agency. So afraid of losing the love of her life, she messed it all up herself. Before anyone else could. What do you reckon?
“We were young.” No.
“We lost our way.” No, not that.
“But we had our day, didn’t we?” The sentence.
Tiramisu! Amaretto too, one over the limit. Warm sugar pushes me back into seat, safe again: words flowing, film and music, common ground, misty eyes acceptable now. Can’t take this away. Alcohol coats mouth and throat, candles glow, eyes lock on, linger, stray below neckline: is part of this still mine? Past ten now. Three hands on the table, love and restraint, once clammy now dry, liver spots like mould, how unkind.
“The two of us, here now. This is all that matters. I feel grateful.”
Steady now. Hold back, keep distance, think of something else. No need to go there, not now, no need to say this now, no need to scratch this, not now, no, don’t let it out, not now, don’t talk about the destruction and the criminal waste and the beauty in my hands all thrown away and yes I would go back and start all over again, apologies to your daughters, and no I don’t believe in The One now but I did then and that’s the whole problem, isn’t it? and yes of course I knew things were not right, did I ever deny that things were not right, when did you hear me say that everything was alright?
Waiter veers away.
Breathe.
Through window, taxi unloads new guests.
The past is just an idea. Appearing in consciousness. Today, yesterday, Venice, a church: all laid flat on a single plane. No fabric here. I am sorry, for pain, sorry for sheer juvenile self-absorption – back then, I mean. No laugh, only a head, leaned to one side.
“The check, sir?” Yes, I believe it is.
Napkins falling, coats rising, scarves rewinding, accelerating, dizzy standing. Hidden audience guffaws, others shake heads, tomorrow’s reviews a stinker. Soft warm hand on cheek, yes, comfort the boy the boy. Blimey, staff lining up, whose side are they on, I’m not armed. “Come back soon!” Did I pass after all? Candles smear final view, no credits, no Sinatra. What am I patting my pockets for?
Out through red velvet curtain into white air. Face to face, six feet apart, how did we do? Leftward smiles at blue legs and stilettos unfolding from taxi. Top deck of bus yawns and waits for our final lines.
“Let’s walk.”
