supermarkets, there are sometimes still parties.
It never hurts to ask (that’s what he said to me). That’s not true. Sometimes it hurts to ask.
The difficulty is working out the right point in time. As he still hasn’t answered my emails I have waited for him in various places hoping he might turn up.
Finally I saw him last night at a party and he ignored me until at last he took me aside and said he was sort of seeing someone else, and I said, s’okay and he shrugged and said, that’s how it goes, and I shrugged and said, that’s how it goes. And when he said it he was quite close to me and he was wearing the jacket he’d worn when we met with the mend at the elbow, and suddenly I felt I could reach out and grab the mend and pull him toward me and kiss him but that wasn’t possible any more, even though I’d come to the party hoping he would be there and hoping it might have been. And I was wearing the jacket I had on when we met, and when we met it had been draped around my shoulders and every time you kissed me it had fallen off one shoulder and you’d reached your arm around me to pull it back on.
For tonight’s party, I’d put a temporary tattoo of a spider on my wrist because I’d thought it would be fun.
Over by the windows, L was talking with his work junior, M, and he said, you’re my Dalston homegirl , and she snarled, yeah man , because she wasn’t: she was just younger than him and a woman and not white.
Then L said, make me a rollie, M .
And she rolled one for him, thin and black.
It was not a fun party.
We don’t talk now but sometimes I still like to see whether you are online. I can see when you’re there because next to your name on my screen there’s the little green light. I have the same green light. It says, available .
At least I didn’t create a fuss, make a scene. At least I didn’t leave inelegantly.
Elegance is a function of failure. The elegant always know what it is to have failed. There is no need for elegance in success: success itself is enough. But elegance in failure is essential.
I left quietly and walked over the bridge to the station and it was not raining and nobody knew I had gone.
NEW YEAR’S DAY
New Year’s Day on the sofa. I folded my life in on itself, seven times. The last few folds it only bent. I was surprised it was so bulky.
Last night I went to a New Year’s Party where I met an Indian. I mean that’s how he described himself—“I am an Indian.” I talked to him for a long time. He seemed neither more nor less interesting than anyone else at the party, where I knew no one well and most people not at all. He told me he had once taught business studies but had now gone back to running a business.
Everyone at the party was so lovely. Everyone was so happy. Everyone’s websites were now in color with hand-drawn lettering. Everyone liked cooking and eating. Everyone didn’t see why they shouldn’t like—shoes! Everyone had taken pictures of themselves or had pictures of themselves taken in thrift-store clothing. Everyone agreed they should take time out for themselves. Everyone knew the difference between need and desire. Everyone made surprisingly snarky jokes. But then everyone laughed. Everyone smoked, or used to smoke, but everyone also, or instead, did—yoga. Everyone was younger than me, even those who were older. Or maybe it was the other way round. Everyone knew how to take their time. Everyone knew the value of real success, though everyone once worked for a flashy magazine or somesuch. Everyone knew how to say fuck. Everyone knew when to say, fuck it. Everyone wasn’t hurting anyone. Everyone knew how to keep some distance. Everyone knew when to let it go. Everyone knew when to say enough is enough. Everyone enjoyed cake. Everyone had a secret tattoo. Anyone who didn’t was keeping it secret. Everyone was surprised at some things. Other things were no surprise to anyone. Everyone knew there’s a time and a place, though
It never hurts to ask (that’s what he said to me). That’s not true. Sometimes it hurts to ask.
The difficulty is working out the right point in time. As he still hasn’t answered my emails I have waited for him in various places hoping he might turn up.
Finally I saw him last night at a party and he ignored me until at last he took me aside and said he was sort of seeing someone else, and I said, s’okay and he shrugged and said, that’s how it goes, and I shrugged and said, that’s how it goes. And when he said it he was quite close to me and he was wearing the jacket he’d worn when we met with the mend at the elbow, and suddenly I felt I could reach out and grab the mend and pull him toward me and kiss him but that wasn’t possible any more, even though I’d come to the party hoping he would be there and hoping it might have been. And I was wearing the jacket I had on when we met, and when we met it had been draped around my shoulders and every time you kissed me it had fallen off one shoulder and you’d reached your arm around me to pull it back on.
For tonight’s party, I’d put a temporary tattoo of a spider on my wrist because I’d thought it would be fun.
Over by the windows, L was talking with his work junior, M, and he said, you’re my Dalston homegirl , and she snarled, yeah man , because she wasn’t: she was just younger than him and a woman and not white.
Then L said, make me a rollie, M .
And she rolled one for him, thin and black.
It was not a fun party.
We don’t talk now but sometimes I still like to see whether you are online. I can see when you’re there because next to your name on my screen there’s the little green light. I have the same green light. It says, available .
At least I didn’t create a fuss, make a scene. At least I didn’t leave inelegantly.
Elegance is a function of failure. The elegant always know what it is to have failed. There is no need for elegance in success: success itself is enough. But elegance in failure is essential.
I left quietly and walked over the bridge to the station and it was not raining and nobody knew I had gone.
NEW YEAR’S DAY
New Year’s Day on the sofa. I folded my life in on itself, seven times. The last few folds it only bent. I was surprised it was so bulky.
Last night I went to a New Year’s Party where I met an Indian. I mean that’s how he described himself—“I am an Indian.” I talked to him for a long time. He seemed neither more nor less interesting than anyone else at the party, where I knew no one well and most people not at all. He told me he had once taught business studies but had now gone back to running a business.
Everyone at the party was so lovely. Everyone was so happy. Everyone’s websites were now in color with hand-drawn lettering. Everyone liked cooking and eating. Everyone didn’t see why they shouldn’t like—shoes! Everyone had taken pictures of themselves or had pictures of themselves taken in thrift-store clothing. Everyone agreed they should take time out for themselves. Everyone knew the difference between need and desire. Everyone made surprisingly snarky jokes. But then everyone laughed. Everyone smoked, or used to smoke, but everyone also, or instead, did—yoga. Everyone was younger than me, even those who were older. Or maybe it was the other way round. Everyone knew how to take their time. Everyone knew the value of real success, though everyone once worked for a flashy magazine or somesuch. Everyone knew how to say fuck. Everyone knew when to say, fuck it. Everyone wasn’t hurting anyone. Everyone knew how to keep some distance. Everyone knew when to let it go. Everyone knew when to say enough is enough. Everyone enjoyed cake. Everyone had a secret tattoo. Anyone who didn’t was keeping it secret. Everyone was surprised at some things. Other things were no surprise to anyone. Everyone knew there’s a time and a place, though
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