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.
You caught me, Foxglove, with your upright colour. You turned me from the river thinking I had been alone. I liked your pale and speckled belly, and the tiny fragile hairs guarding your mouth.
My grandfather who was not gay was born in 1930 in Seville, Andalusia. He worked as an itinerant labourer for the señoritos, the rich landlords, tending their olive trees and their domesticated animals.
He was a black hole in a suit. An abyss in a necktie. And he sat down next to her on the train.