Sunday, April 11, 2004

It started in the kitchen, with a dead grasshopper in a glass, and a monster in the making. It ends in the same dress, black tights, blue converse and a black jumper, under streetlights, in the rain. The black heels and a certain teenage elegance swapped for shoes I can run away in, if I need to. I don't remember anything, beyond the steak, the zucchini, the green beans and the jugs of water. Not the liquor, but at the time I was running a commentary in my head and I knew how this would sound when I wrote it, and now I don't.

In the kitchen, with a dead grasshopper to drink and boys in shirts, ties, with coffee stains on the side and all today I've been so preoccupied; my love of bad science fiction, my crush on a fictional press secretary, legs that go on forever. She drinks grasshoppers.

("I'm sorry", he said. "It's OK", I said.)

It's stupid because I've dried my hair, at three in the morning before, in the same dress, gotten rid of the rain water before, but all I can think is, I've rewritten the script, and now I don't know what to do.

("It's OK. It's OK. I. I better. I should. I. I've got to go.")

Accidentally, secretly, fell out of love with you.