Thursday, 19 July 2012

80: Warning

Don’t do that. 

I’ll leave you little notes to remind you and you’ll find them in your pocket and your lunchbox and your shoes.  The writing will be red and loopy and sometimes scribbled.

When you see me, check my eyes.  See how the smile doesn’t reach them?  You might not notice because if you would, I wouldn’t have to say anything at all.  It will be tight, the smile.  Quite obvious.

If you ask me questions, I will reply “Yes” and “No” and “Maybe.”  Also “Nothing.”

Your tea may have a few ice crystals in the centre as I might forget to remove it from the freezer early enough.  Or it might be black around the edges.  Are both at once possible?

I won’t compare you and your brother as lovers, unless you make me.  I may start the research already though.

I will wedge a piece of fish between the seats of your car, barely hidden so you can find it.  But you won’t find the small slivers I’ll stuff into the air vent.  You’ll smell them for a long time but you won’t find them.

I won’t repeat myself.


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