It seems the sky has been white for days now, not even grey, but a blurry white, heavy, a sky of goose down, of soft obliteration.
Yesterday was the laziest of Sundays.
I woke and slept and woke and slept, and always there was the boy’s body next to mine. This is warm. This is new.
The bus took us southwards and eastwards towards London Bridge, where I was on plant-watering duty at Hens and John’s. Water in the herb box made the air smell of moist earth, of coriander, of green.
We moseyed, in the Tate Modern – its wide, concrete floors are made for this – we meandered. I peered between thick doors marked “No Entry”. I know where Cy Twombly’s Quattro Stagioni is, I like coming ’round the corner to it, his Autunno with its colours like wet leaves.
The rain came down, furious. The Harmonic Bridge piped in the rainsound, tribal drums echoing around the Turbine Hall. And then, just as suddenly, it passed, it had passed, and we ran for the bus under straggling raindrops.
There was room for us under the awning outside Bar Italia, me and Olive and Madalena and the strange, thin man in a grey suit muttering about Chinese people. “Chinese people in London,” he said, and he was alone with his glass of wine. “And they speak English,” he said, lowly, to no one. I surprised myself: I wanted to scream, I wanted to cry.
Claudio came and found us, later, too late for the parma ham and wild rocket pizza. He was polishing off a beer, like a boy who works Sundays, and was explaining about his section manager at his new job. “Not the boss,” he specified. “The supervisor, but less.” He brought his hand, palm down, a step lower. “The less visor,” he said. “The visor.” We were two boys and two girls laughing into Sunday evening.
It was eightish, I guess, and the cold was seeping in from the streets and settling in for the night. Claudio and Madalena ran for the bus up Charing Cross Road. The boy and I, we crossed the street where someone had tied a yellow raffia YOU AND ME into the metal railing.
I don’t know how it happened, but summer’s kissed us and left us in a blink of an eye. Sunday night there was pea and ham soup in a flame-orange pot the colour of the memory of the summer sun.
Yesterday was the laziest of Sundays.
I woke and slept and woke and slept, and always there was the boy’s body next to mine. This is warm. This is new.
The bus took us southwards and eastwards towards London Bridge, where I was on plant-watering duty at Hens and John’s. Water in the herb box made the air smell of moist earth, of coriander, of green.
We moseyed, in the Tate Modern – its wide, concrete floors are made for this – we meandered. I peered between thick doors marked “No Entry”. I know where Cy Twombly’s Quattro Stagioni is, I like coming ’round the corner to it, his Autunno with its colours like wet leaves.
The rain came down, furious. The Harmonic Bridge piped in the rainsound, tribal drums echoing around the Turbine Hall. And then, just as suddenly, it passed, it had passed, and we ran for the bus under straggling raindrops.
There was room for us under the awning outside Bar Italia, me and Olive and Madalena and the strange, thin man in a grey suit muttering about Chinese people. “Chinese people in London,” he said, and he was alone with his glass of wine. “And they speak English,” he said, lowly, to no one. I surprised myself: I wanted to scream, I wanted to cry.
Claudio came and found us, later, too late for the parma ham and wild rocket pizza. He was polishing off a beer, like a boy who works Sundays, and was explaining about his section manager at his new job. “Not the boss,” he specified. “The supervisor, but less.” He brought his hand, palm down, a step lower. “The less visor,” he said. “The visor.” We were two boys and two girls laughing into Sunday evening.
It was eightish, I guess, and the cold was seeping in from the streets and settling in for the night. Claudio and Madalena ran for the bus up Charing Cross Road. The boy and I, we crossed the street where someone had tied a yellow raffia YOU AND ME into the metal railing.
I don’t know how it happened, but summer’s kissed us and left us in a blink of an eye. Sunday night there was pea and ham soup in a flame-orange pot the colour of the memory of the summer sun.
posted by stellou at 11:58 PM
5 Comments:
I'm sorry, I know I'm repeating myself, but I loves Claudio. He cracka me up.
And as for the man in the gray suit, well, fuck him. He is not even supercilious; he is just cilious.
Ya, Claudio. Nobody doesn't like Claudio.
(The other day I think I may have used a triple negative - are you reading this, Maud?? - a triple negative!! By the end of it I was spent, and had forgotten where I'd begun.)
The man in the grey suit. Ya, well, probably he will slip into my dreams in a couple of nights. Probably I will wake up cold.
The Tate Modern gives me a headache. Never spend more than 4 hours in there without water.
every girl should have a watering can to water her garden with and annoying men in suits!
tscd > Yurgh. I like the Tate Modern a lot, but I couldn't imagine spending more than four hours in there. It's a nice perk of living in London, I think, being able to pop in and out of the museums as I like. And then continuing on to Borough Market for a tasty treat. Haha
deborah > Hmm... I can probably just about fit a small watering can in my bag. It really would have to be a small one though. An old one, found in the markets of Istanbul. Forged by Turkish metalworkers. A little filigree around the swell of its brass belly...
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