Happiness

In the abandoned building, amid the rubble, Abraham disrobes. His pale skin glows in the sun, his dark chest hairs protrude, accentuated by the shocking milkiness of his torso. He holds his hands high, grinning. Maggie unpacks their meagre picnic scrounged from a recent dumpster dive. She arranges the slices of stale fruit toast using a plastic bag as a plate. As Abraham proudly displays his junk she throws back her pretty head and laughs. The tinkling sound brightens the room.
 

“I stand before you as an unburdened man.”

“I can see that.”

“Now, I mean now I feel unburdened. You see...” He falters thoughtfully, admiring her. Her grin is at least ten years younger than she is. “What I wanted to do with my life is long passed. I have no wish to aim and not necessarily succeed. Doesn't the seething masses of mediocrity make this collective attempt on a daily basis?”

“I think it depends entirely on your perspective, you know. It's all about what you might have known. One man's hell could be another's measure of success. Like having a job, any job...”

“Philosophy be damned. I have resigned myself to the fact that I have all I need. I have you.”

“Oh thanks.”

“Perhaps I could have been more romantic?”
 

The expression on her face is a mixture of horror and amusement. Her grubby face is marked by years of barely scraping by. 

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I know we have nothing.”

Maggie pops a stale morsel into her mouth and softens it with her tongue. He goes on. 

“Less than nothing, Mon Amour. But I think we should marry, post haste and be done with this gritty world. I love you my dear, I'm not ashamed of it. We are both losers and yet we can make a go of it, don't you think?”

Maggie grins again, her teeth showing. Her eyes sparkle and she opens her mouth to speak. Her last remark, be it a happy response or a protest, remains unspoken. A shot rings out. It pierces the air. Abraham looked aghast as she crumples, slowly, wrongly and falls on an unfortunate angle, subjugated by gravity the way only a lifeless body can be. There is no cry of pain. Her pretty eyes dim and she fades, appallingly quickly. Her lips purse, as though holding back a thought. 
 

From the shadows a very beautiful woman in a black jacket and tight, black jeans steps forward. Her black hair falls past her shoulders. She lowers the pistol. 
 

“Abraham, Honey, you can't expect your past to stay silent. Not even you can suddenly chose to go straight.”

He is shaking.

“That girl.” He stammers. “She was a bloody good woman.”

“Oh I don't doubt it.”

“Better than you'll ever be!” He is distraught.

Anita mouths the phrase with him as he speaks. It infuriates him.

“We would have remained nameless! Flown under the radar! I wouldn't have spoken of you or the others to anyone. Couldn't you have let her go?”

“No of course not. Don't be silly, Abe. Your silence wouldn't have lasted forever, not if you loved her. Now help me drag her into the dumpster.”

“No. I hope you hang for this!”

“Keep your voice down. Besides, corporal punishment is no longer legal, Abraham. Now lift and drag her with me.”

“Shove it up your evil arse.”

“Well I would now, wouldn't I? But you won't let me play anymore.”

“Anita, you are an insufferable woman.”

“Abraham I have spent years perfecting the art.”

“My mistake, I thought you were hiding under a rock, attempting to grow feelings.”

“Your wit is about as exciting as your choice in new lovers. I know what they say, never get jealous when you see your ex with someone new, we were taught, after all, as children, to give our used toys to the less fortunate.”

“You must excuse me. I didn't realise that rock you were hiding under taught you only how to be more of an evil bitch.”

“Rocks aren't teachers. Life taught me.”

“Why did you kill her?”

“Your new toy?”

“Yeah. I think she's sweet, honest. You couldn't begin to understand.”

“Was, my dear.”

“Fuck You.”

the simple act of loving isn't enough

I'm interested in the idea of seeing the two of you together. I want to watch. I know I never will. Does she bury her cold face in the warmth of your neck, to keep her nose warm? Do you let her, as you did me, grimacing from the cold embrace? Is she mercurial and quick tempered, like I am? Like I was, with you? Hot and cold again by turns, but always ready to take your cock in my hands and make love to you.

Do you kiss her like we kissed? Soft at first giving way to more insistent pressure and the growing sense of urgency? After love-making, do you pat your great chest and lie back, inviting her to enjoy the warrior-eque plains of your chest as you utter a simple command? I loved that. I like your self assurance and your monosyllabic approach to the complex patterns of everyday love.

When you make love, is she eager and yielding? I can't imagine you fucking a woman who showed signs of resistance. I can't imagine you fucking. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to imagine you riding her, you're big body belittling hers. Your silent stamina driving you both towards orgasm. It hurts.

It hurts.

It's not the leaving that did it. It's these images that are my destruction. My ultimate assurance that I loved you. My hands shake when I imagine you trading the same language of tenderness. I can feel the weight of the world in the back of my throat as I try to swallow these feelings. My rebellious imagination is making the pain in my insides resilient. I want it to end. I go on cutting myself on the jagged edges of regret. Does she moan when you stroke her and hold her head close, so close you're not actually kissing her, although the air you are both breathing is the same?

I ache to let it go. Whatever it is that you have with your new beauty, this woman that you chose over me, let it be different. Let your new feelings inspire a whole separate part of you, awakened by our parting, removed from the man that I loved. I don't like to think that now we are middle aged, we are mannered and the receptacles of our love are interchangeable. These thoughts destroy me.

I'm stroking another man's fair hair as he shudders and recovers, lying across my naked torso. I've perfected the art. I can caress a lover in such a way, he need not look in my eyes. I'm afraid I'll see something in the depths, something I was always searching for in yours. I remember finding it as you loomed over me, held up by the strength in your arms, thrusting your cock into me, possessing me and not only with your man- meat. We were all that mattered to each other. I saw an indescribable emotion in your eyes. Love? I don't know. I certainly haven't seen it for a long time.

I miss the warmth and the comfort of your arms. I miss your artless conversation and silences that spoke of your need for solitude, in opposition to my incessant chatter. I believe we were meant to meet. Perhaps we were meant to be separated. I know I ache for you, in the recesses beyond what is changeable, under a blanket of disbelief and beside the embers of my self esteem.

There is something to be said for compromise. A trait which we both might aspire to, although neither of us can happily, truthfully admit we possess. For all the broken summers and the plans we had, I have but this; I loved a great man.

In life, sometimes the simple act of loving isn't enough.

Melancholy November

“Ali, ALI? You can hear me right?”

Her voice is gentle, insistent and she never once looks away from Ali’s face.

“Picture a woman standing in a small street, quite close a to a... A stobie pole. Only she’s not standing on a street corner see, but in a theatre. To her left is the shiny red of the house curtain and in front of her is the ‘people’ smell of the crowd. (This theatre will be needing new seats soon and some of the audience are hoping the first act isn’t going to be long. The chair’s springs are sticking into various arses.)

You are staying with me, right?”

The bleeding woman nods.

“Don’t die on me now” There is a lot of blood. “I sent that fat, nervous woman to call someone. Hold on.

HOLD.”

Maura licks her lips. They’re dry, too dry. It’s grose. Where is everybody?

“On this stage, the lights dim.” She whispers “Darkness....”

Maura takes a breath, interupts herself. It’s gaspy as she hadn’t realised she was holding onto the air. In anticipation for the story she has begun to tell?

Despite the hand supporting her bleeding friend and their uncomfortable position on the cold cement, Maura smiles. She loves stories. Almost imperceptively, so as not to disrupt her friend; the wound, this moment - Maura tries to shift and fails. Her right leg goes slowly numb and she dreads the pins and needles that will follow, later.

“Act One...”

Ali’s voice is feeble, her tongue is tied. Her eyes are no longer open, but she is still there, prompting. Wanting something for the pain.

“Ali look up at me mate?”

The bleeding woman complies.

“I’ve got on a sports bra, I’m going to try to tornique the wound”

Without easing away from her load, Maura disrobes and rips at her white shirt. She ties the leg. Ali winces and her neck is at a funny angle as the other woman bends down to tie it off.

Breathless now, Maura sits back and continues.

“The lady on our stage, she starts her monologue” Clears throat ...

“Once I’ve battled my way through another glorious, orgasmic moment back to reality and the buzz from sexual stimulation has receeded, when the low hum of want is drowned out by the bright shiny daylight.”

Ali looks up, the pallor of her skin scares the other woman. In addition she can hear the woman’s breathing. Shallow and laboured.

“No sleepy time” Maura kisses a finger and places it tenderly on Ali’s pasty forehead, their story forgotten. As she looks up, boots - attached to the strong legs of two emergency servicemen - send relief flooding through both the women.

They roll Ali from her and commence putting her body onto a stretcher. Her body. The woman is lifeless, a soupie, greyish tint to her skin and her dry cracked face. Maura wants to touch her. One last time.

“There’ll be a next time” a nurse by her side reassures gently and drags her away to sit under a blanket. Apparently the shock can do funny things to her system and she must be molley-coddled and still.

Maura chokes on the hot chocolate and wonders when it is she can go home.

Lost

Its so cold. I'm shivering but I don't think its just the cold. I've got a cold heart, cold because the last time I saw you I shouted at you as you left. I've got a stone where my love for you should be and it's wearing me out.
I'm a balloon, tethered at a knot and every time something I know and trust shifts, a long way away from me, one of the stays snaps and a bit of the air rushes in to pull me from the ground.

The balloon bobs, straining at it's stays. I'm sure I want you, though this isn't a happily ever after. Don't tell me that's not what I want.

aside from that Mrs Lincoln, how was the opera?

the only thing I wanted was for you to love me.
the only thing I really wanted was for you not to die.
I don’t really know how I feel about you
actually
and
now I won’t ever have to know.

I don’t mind that you hit me a couple of times and
I grew out of the mental abuse that comes of neglect
but I never understood why you were so selfish.

neither did she

and its hard to know who was in the wrong. All I see is my mother’s wasted life

look what sticks in your guts when you're forced to look back
look what happens when you never take risks
look what happens when you’re an arsehole who’s tight with their money

who’s to say if you tasted blood when I asked my brother to punch you?
you were only asking for it
I remember you hitting the floor

I wanted to see teeth on the ground

You made my guts ache with your pain
that special kind,
that only a fist to the eye can deliver
but
you don’t even have to do it any more for me to feel it

Is it dark in there with the warmth of the light turned off?

I never played sport because of you
and
I couldn't let girls hug me
it would have hurt too much
if I winced
they’d have looked for the bruises
that’s ok
you won’t be thinking of me
ever
again

it’s a cold, heavy trust that I hold in the pit of me
you are gone you are gone
You…

but I wanted you to love me
and it’s a terrible thing to wish for a death,

even yours

'never gonna step on a full beer are you love'

'No' she says. He pushes her to the bushes. She scrambles into the darkness. She's running away.
“I'm running” she says to herself. Her teeth are tight.
“I'm running…” The car’s about 4 km’s back. He’s folded against the windscreen. He’s wishing. Wishing... He can feel it draining out of him slowly.

Her shirt catches on the needle-like natives, she’s
not running anymore, it's getting damp. As the light leaves the bush-land it looks like a blanket coming in from the sky. She steps carefully, trying to remember where the road is.

He's wearing a look of surprise when they find him. The men in blue run the usual checks. The special services task force will be out here looking until tomorrow night but the shire area stretches into wilderness both sides. ‘Cosy’, the locals call it. And it's such a small town in the wilderness…
‘A Death trap' -The SES Regional Services-.

The SES take themselves seriously out here, managing somehow to muster respectability in spite of bright orange jumpsuits.

She's sits for two days. She can tell by the sky. Her cold legs are numb and there’s a bump on her head. (She’d expected that). Expected that? Not really at all what she imagined and he squirms around on her mind.
She doesn't look for him. She doesn't want to.

There is remorse right down to her young toes, she has to massage them every couple of hours. There is remorse too, in the tight feeling in her head. She sucks leaves. The daylight dies again.

The SES didn't take as long as expected to find a clue. The clue was her. She wasn't expecting that. They hadn’t expected to find anyone alive. All of a sudden out of the wall of trees walked a person. She couldn’t believe her eyes. They take her from the bushland and there really isn’t much talking.

The investigation carries on for a few weeks, they keep her in a psych. ward. In the end not all of the details are clear. There’s a few things about that night they can't clean up and they're all looking at her.

She bares her teeth.

He can see something but it's just the light reflecting off solid metal. He doesn't move.
It was a bad idea, a mad time. Mad, bad pain follows.
“Didn't really love the bitch” he mouths. (He bets they all say that). Bet. Hedge bets.
Better than ever if I get out of here…

He doesn't.

They've found the car and found him dead. They never found the other man. The one that got away. Odds are the investigation never even knew there was another man. Who am I to say?
Open an old wound? Say nothing
Stay.

She talks in her sleep in the psych ward.
She says “enubba, reto and incubububbua ad” but no one understands. Perhaps it wasn't meant to mean a thing.

One day, all by herself, she gets a good solid grip on the walls. She makes sounds like an animal and she speaks to the other man present in the room, the nurse.
“Away! Away!” She says. Then she starts to tell a story…
A tall tale about a night in the bush-land. She can feel the words spilling out of her mouth in no particular order, like most things. All of a sudden she feels better.

Away, away is where they take her.

She causes a riot on the inside.The try to keep her contained, further into the bowels of the building but her chanting incites the other inmates and they transfer her to an isolation wing.
“Away away” she says, in place of a greeting to a cell-mate.
“Never gonna step on a full beer are ya love?” She mumbles without eye contact. “And I won’t throw one at you…”
She moves into the corner.
“No” she says softly shaking her head. “He’s not the dead one, he’s not the dead one… I remember...” She shivers, she massages her thin legs.

They never found him. They never will. He pushes around in her mind.

Eggs Florentine

Its amazing.
Everything is.
After a good orgasm I find myself
contemplating the intensely self-indulgent nature of everything.

Well it is.

But I decided that as long as you are only developing simple enjoyment – taking simple self indulgent pleasures based on an indulgent nature; then this can’t be harmful. Watching ants can’t be harmful to anyone.
But bugger-me-dead it’s fun and we all ought to do it.

Reminds me about
the
stuff we forget. If you know what I mean. You know what I mean?
I don’t know why I’m asking that.
Perhaps that is because we are that lucky generation that will inherit the unfortunate ability to be misunderstood.

The seven minutes that follow sex are non refundable moments in life. Like when you find out the cat is dead, or the sewage system your house will now need will be more than 6000 dollars..
wondering if you’re pregnant,
double checking a scratchie because things are looking good…

It’s the sort of religious experience with yourself that makes you understand how Paris could have felt having slept with Helen of Troy despite the ensuing war.
A heroic, silly moment.
This is a feeling; like the others I mentioned
that doesn’t have a name.

I‘ve put it down to seven minutes as a matter of scientifically researched phenomenon. The euphoria that goes with it accompanies any strenuous physical accomplishment, is well…euphoria because by god- it’s got a name. In my opinion the rest of it doesn’t.

How relaxing to smell someone so close,
that dipped-in-honey feeling deep in your breast.

The nameless moment when you don't know whether he might love you or not and
whether that strange warmth is beating out of his body too.
Of course it doesn’t always.
Even then I’ll still greedily take the moment,
like a satin-sheeted bed and enjoy the feel of it,
it’s intensity,
even though he might not have cut his toe-nails in more than three weeks and it’s catching on the fine threads in the satin sheets.

Orgasm’s help remind us that the world is an amazing place.

My SBS moment lives on.
It’s incredible brevity is probably part of its charm.

My mother says ‘everything passes, everything pales everything palls’.

Succinct
accurate
the way we like our Sale of the Century contestants (or should I say Temptation)

These are amongst life’s simply pleasures.
For once in my life I know what I mean and I

I don’t divulge anything in these 7 minutes. Not always…because I could be next to a man I barely know
or a lover
I don’t want him to find out too much

I’m not one to talk about relationships.

Life is amazing for a lot more than just this one reason but I would at least put cumming in the top ten.

And
there is such a fine line between being self aware and self-conscious.

It’s sexy to be aware, for example of the fine hairs on my arms and in Melbourne I notice the wind more than in Perth and it caresses my bare arms. I notice it.
I feel like I have come to a point in my understanding of my sexuality love of life can be orgasmic and that’s sexy too,

so I can feel the world through my sex, at times too. I can feel my body and it’s feminine responses. Just as I am careful not to look for responses in people at me, or look for my reflection too often in passing windows. I want to ooze happiness, not vanity.

I roll over to him and I can smell his smooth skin and my sex. It hangs in the heavy bedroom air with a spice rack of other odours, his hair. Our sweat. ..

I wish he was alive. I wish I hadn’t shot him as I came.