LOVE, LOVE AND THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM
October 30th 2011 08:04
What’s love? I asked the receptionist. It’s something you get bored of, silly, she smiled. Although it’s now been some time since all of this has happened, I can still pick out pieces from the blurry shaky parts of my memories and remember the good things about what we had, like when we’d run out of things to do we’d have some dinner or go to South Bank and watch a movie and when we’d line up for tickets I’d take photos of her and she’d always pose: she’d lean against someone, she’d give me the finger, she’d blow a kiss, she’d do something for me to remember.
Once she rang me at four in the morning, crying. A demon has taken over my friend! she said. We went to her friend’s home and her friend, a mother of three and an ex-wife of two, was in the bathroom, screaming in a number of completely different languages. The door was locked and she wouldn’t let anyone in. Her kids were all huddled and the eldest one was kept screaming, WHAT ABOUT SCHOOL TOMORROW? The receptionist took my hand and we walked to the backyard and she ran her fingers along the back of my head and asked me if I ever knew what the world was thinking.
After about an hour a few neighbours arrived and kicked the bathroom door open and we found the receptionist’s friend in a bath towel, shaking. Her skin was completely cold; she didn’t remember anything.
That evening, the receptionist and I walked around her neighbourhood and we found a black ring on the sidewalk; the ring had a plastic cat’s face attached to it. I wiped it clean and the receptionist took it from my hand and wore it on her middle finger. I took a photo of her showing me the ring and as we continued walking around the neighbourhood we found a painfully high hill, and we kept climbing this painfully high hill because at the top of it was this house with lights and people drinking and laughing around. We got there and it truly was an excessive house. From the driveway we could see Brisbane. Expensive tiny lights, dribbling like tiny falling fireworks, hung onto the expensively maintained trees around the entrance of the expensive house, and all the expensive looking visitors slowly swayed to the expensive sounding music. Millions of boys out there would die to hang out with someone like you, I told the receptionist, to which she smiled and said nothing and tucked some hair behind her ear.
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