I'm always awake before him and can only go
back to sleep once he's gone. All I want is for him to touch me when he
lays there peacefully, caught up in a dream or a nightmare. I sometimes
take his hand and place it between my legs to see if it wakes him up and
when it does he fucks me in slow motion as if we're both still asleep.
Lately
he's been gentle in the way he speaks to me, in the things he says and
how he holds on to me when we stumble back from restaurants and bars
late at night. He asks for permission to call me between lectures and
lets me pick out shirts for him to wear.
This morning, just as
he's about to leave in something close to black from McQueen, he stops
for a second in the doorway. The sun has yet to come up from behind the
building across the street, air smells of gasoline and dust. "Avy?" he
says, almost whispers, his back still turned against me. "I don't want
you to be unhappy".
I've been told I taste like revolution, since then I always drink on Fridays.
I
meet Chloe for lunch in the Meatpacking District, the dark alcohol
rushing through my veins helps dissolve the acrid hipster smell around
the table. She leaves everything she ordered untouched apart from the
tall glass of rye whiskey, then pays the bill with the firm's credit
card.
"He's here" she says, suddenly, "I'm seeing him on Sunday".
It's been the elephant in the room for weeks now, hearing her say it
should make it easier to bear but it doesn't. We both know it's a
funeral, later I wander around the McQueen store without any sense of
direction, picking out snow white roses for Sunday.
Chloe the copywriter is jealous of me, it's a
cute look for her. She found a link to my blog in the good examples
section of an online content writing course.
Apparently I write "great first lines", and I didn't even ask for it
(that's what bothers her the most). "Here I am trying to write something
meaningful for orange juice" she says, "and I can't even picture the
fucking product without vodka in it."
I try to offer some comfort
by reminding her that at least she gets paid to write. "So do you" she
says, "people love you. That's payment enough". I guess she's right, but
sometimes I wish I really was that marketing campaign someone accused
me of being.
So to the dear people at Alexander McQueen, Moschino
or Prada: if you ever feel like using me in your marketing, you know
where to find me. I'm the girl wearing your clothes on the dance floor
later tonight.
