Thinking about this, they grow wide-eyed and speak so fast that the windows become flecked with child spittle. How can they have made themselves so ridiculous by dreaming?
Underscoring the onset of nausea on the pier, feelings of self-loathing
also bubble up to the surface. “I get seasick in the bathtub, man,”
declares a ponytailed dude in Plymouth pink.
Henri is at least good for catching the scent of socio-political turmoil in the air.
I often fantasise about tipping the cabinet forward until the plastic drawers slide out and spill their contents in a wave of plastic. I tell myself they should be recycled or reused. But in the fantasy it all just spills out and keeps on spilling.
Neither of them talk much in the morning. Somehow things are more difficult in the early hours. She feels more fragile, more lost, more oppressed by the narrow confines and the lack of light.
‘Your place or mine?’ he typed, adding then deleting a winky face and pressing send.
‘Neither,’ she replied very quickly, adding ‘obviously.’
It’s not that she wasn’t happy for her sister, far from it. Nadia only wished she could hold on to her for a little longer.
I sway and I spin, I smile. Sometimes even in perfect moments, you begin to feel the cold creep in.
That night that the piano man and I first slept together was the night we discovered the pleasure of talking aloud about murder.
Today I woke up slightly ill and with a sense of nostalgia that was only just bearable.
A glimpse into a young woman’s summer working in a quaint town in Provence on the night of an open-air concert.
Deirdre Murphy died on the 11th June, exactly three years after she should have died of a stroke. She was a despicable old bat, a snobby try hard, an utter sour puss, to name a few of her nicknames.