Where were we then?
Where were we then? Not your back garden on dull coloured deck chairs, the polyester making static against the cotton on my dress. Flocks of birds scattered above us, diving left and right and then disappearing behind the canopy of red tile roofing. I had never been here before.
Where were we then? Not in your kitchen, rich herbs and spices stacked on a metal shelf near the door, my talcum powder footprints on the wood of your floor. Leant against your kitchen counter, condensation on the gin glass, sweat on my upper lip, your tiny dog sniffing at my shins. You said sorry, and I said it’s okay.
Where was I then? Not in your bathroom, naked and damp on the toilet, as I pulled wet hairs from my head and dropped them in the bathtub in the hope she might find them. The window was open, and I could see your neighbours eating bread and olives on their porch. I shuddered when I remembered, pulled an earring out and threw it behind her toiletries, and they were same ones that I had tricked myself into believing were mine.
Where were we then? Not in the bedroom that you share with her. I fingered the material of her clothes and wondered will they fit me, thought about leaving something in the pocket of her jacket – perhaps a ring. We found each other in the dark sweat marks of our bodies on your sheets, on the bruises you left on my hips. You blared smooth piano music from the speaker in the corner, and it did nothing to drown out the quiet between us, awkward conversation, pauses between full stops. The taste of you, bitter in my mouth, brittle on my face, and the white streak in my underwear. The feel of you, those moles on your shoulder like small bubbles of skin. The thought of you leaping up at the sound of the front door, leaving me cowering in your ensuite.
Where were we then? Smoking roll up cigarettes in silence, my expectation twisting our tongues, ready for you. When I asked you where I fit you said you didn’t know. It has been six months.
I found myself at last when I stop it. Tip of my tongue I stop it, stopped it before it slid from my tongue.