- The one that cried through the speaker of your first cracked-Nokia and unsuccessfully called thirty-seven times after you hung up.
- The one who cried into your hair when he knew for certain you didn't want him and you noticed the trail of ants crawling up the tree bark and wondered where they were going.
- The one you flatly told to leave as the dawn clambered cold through the gaps in the wooden blinds and left stripes of light across your body.
- The one who didn't cry at all, but stepped silently across the stained carpet and let himself out the back door. You lay still pretending to be asleep and spent the subsequent morning guiltless, scraping candle wax from the floor.
June's Cancerian horoscope warns of change and advises patience. You check his too just in case but then try to read it backwards to counteract the alleged bad luck of reading someone else's horoscope (it only heralded a 'night out with the girls', advised preparations for an imminent 'buzzin party season' anyway.) Touch your neck self-consciously, you do it when stressed. You were a year younger and maybe skinnier and felt surprised by the unexpected safety you felt as he pulled you down and said your name to the hollow of your collar bone again and again like he was scared you'd forget it.
Notice the bartender's wrist as he passes your change, taut and slim and perversely hairless. Feel irrationally overwhelmed by every pair of wrists you've ever actively noticed and make a mental note to start finding other body-parts attractive (but, but, I'm attracted to souls, man.) That stupid boy with constellation-shaped freckles on his wrist, frail and cowardly, who kissed you six-stories high in the carpark and left you and never told you why. And by text! C*nt.
Talk to yourself in the bathroom mirror. It's been such a long time, you say, such a sad long time. Note with pleasant surprise how long your eyelashes look - self-absorbed slut, he probably doesn't even know what colour your eyes are. Cut your legs on the blunt razor and miss patches at the back. Rinse your blood down the hair-speckled sink. You're just vapid, glossy and false; a cup full of empty foam. That's why they always get bored in the end. Wow! There's zero calories in Nytol! The tap creaks. Breathe on the mirror until you become a blur. Rinse 'much love x' down the sink too. Speaking of vapidity. Love for what? Just bland and obligatory as a Clinton's birthday card.
I'm fine, dear. Just pour me some tea. I'll sit still and wait for the next one.