M25 Cobham service station, London. Tuesday. 3:42pm. Tears drop into a murky brown Starbucks mocha. Clammy air is loud with people clamouring inside from pouring rain, I watch it falling outside through the tall steamed glass. A rug has been pulled by old love, inside I'm spinning and everything is blurry. Love makes things blurry. It is only when we are in love that we see things clearly. The rest of the time is the blurry part. Come, let me show you. I don't know what to do with my brain, because it floats so far from my heart.
I rarely visit the past, a land that stretches out to the sea. But things visit me from it from time to time. I look back - eyesores receding into the horizon, the odd jewel, but mostly overcast and raining. I don't often gaze in the other direction either, what about your pension? my mother says. I'd prefer to travel to a place that gives me a better view of where I am, not where I was or could be. But which direction do I go?
*
Brighton seafront, Brighton. 11:34am. The algae-green and grey sea is hurling itself at the beach, the wind is up, and is doing a good job of drowning the flocks of rage that migrated to my head long ago. A seagull swoops and steals a stash of chips from a woman in a blue coat. You already tried to show me, it didn't work out.
*
The Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea, London. Monday. 3.52pm. The trees of Wetherby gardens are swaying and rustling through a tall window, the scent of slightly burnt toast lingers as I dip a knife into a new pot of marmite. The bread is from Gail's Bakery, where one can hear the shrill sounds of the posh, yapping rounds of London's most delightful chocolate and almond croissants for their well-mannered kids. Or notice my judgement lifting my lip a millimetre, which I tingle with sips of London's most delightful macchiato. I was supposed to be in Cyprus. Yesterday, with my PCR test at the ready, brimming with pre-flight glee, I approach the check-in lady: 'Passport please... ...Covid test or vaccination status confirmation please... ... oh, we cannot accept NHS tests'
'But, it's the exact same test I'd have booked with a private company'
'I'm afraid we cannot accept it' she says with a smile as her eyes say - don't fuck with me and fuss, it's only my job to tell you that you are not allowed to fly today, it's your job to fuck off and book another flight, goodbye, you vaccinationless idiot prick.
And so here I sit with my toast and marmite, continuing to wryly smirk at England's murky skies. Out the window a pigeon lands on a branch and looks at me with an expression that says: I'm from England, are you going to judge me too? No, little pigeon, you're too dumb.
*
Kaimakli, Nicosia, Cyprus. 7:32am. A dog's persistent bark breaks the early morning peace then stops, the city hums distantly to the west, overlooked by the Kyrenia mountains. Far above a white plane noiselessly drifts through clear blue eventually disappearing through a blood orange horizon. Come, let me show you, was being said a year ago today by a scene such as this on holiday. Other scenes were also saying come, let me show you, but in more sensual tones, like a θεά of beauty might.
For example, mid-holiday, near Πάφος, the blue sky bare bar the sun beating down late afternoon heat. My body is prone and at ease, arms splayed as waves wet my feet. A breath of cool breeze blows, lifting your hair up like Venus' blown by Zephyr. Then you pick up a smooth eye-blue beach stone and lay it on my chest. Your smile speaks a language I'm momentarily fluent in, speaks more than any words could, then evaporates from my mind the next instant, like a cloud-white spume of sea splashing into thin air. I close my eyes and go slack onto the warm pebbles, listening, tasting salt, and feeling if life were any brighter there'd be nothing left of me but it.
Come, let me show you. Show me what? Harry the ginger cat has just waltzed over my keyboard, he stands with his arsehole pointing in my face and starts licking his paw, slick slick he goes. I take a sip of a nespresso coffee, a bird coos outside, the clock ticks.
