Monday, 12 December 2011

A synthetic kite adorns the branches, hidden from our eyes, but nonetheless still tucked in the trees under which we doze. I had left it there, and there it remains from when I was a girl. Tentative trust bestowed upon me by my father ended in ultimate disappointment when my grip was lost on plastic strings and the garish bird settled far away from us on a tree beyond both our reaches.
But now it watches us from afar and the afternoon heat melts my brain. I slowly drag two fingers down your clammy back (which I do because I can) and I enjoy the nervous pleasure you exhibit, and you shiver. We are sat on an old picnic blanket I believe belonged to my Grandmother. It smells of her old house, slightly fetid. I thought it would quiver and rumble with the stories it must keep of lovers, of children and beige foodstuffs. I let you finish what I have started, for though I may be precocious, I am afraid. Sinister grins protect the true repulsion, and it is true that I am younger than you. I mask paralysis-inducing panic with airs of the garish, and it is true that you love it.

I opened the airing cupboard, fingers groping for fresh towels, instead touching the familiar scratch of that old blanket. I remember these things and I lament that you cannot repeat the past.

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