No, I’m not talking about you tonight.
I’m talking about her.
Her. Going back there every six months like some emotional watering-hole. But I always fall in and start drowning, and I want to go back there, all those years ago.
We met in strange circumstances. Nobody knew we were together, save a handful of your friends. I didn’t like you much at first. You were an arrogant, snooty cunt, who used her looks to get what she wanted.
It never really became apparent in my eyes that you weren’t like that. I just began to see past it. But you defiantly were a snooty cunt.
The first time I thought you were flirting with me was when we were on the phone and I made some joke about how I could see you. You tested me by asking what colour your nipples were.
In a panic, I answered; ‘pink.’
You were silent a moment and then carried on with our regular conversation.
(Four months later, with you bent over your patio bench in the freezing cold at 4am, cicadas chanting us on while I fucked you, I’d notice that your nipples were in fact pink. I’m a fucking mind-reader.)
A few days later you told me about how horny you got the last few days before your period started.
It was at a point, you said, that you even the slightest thing would get your burning.
It was the summer then. Deep, melbourne summer. The floral summer dress was black with red roses, cut above your knees.
I remember finding it cute that even the pale, red-headed rockabilly girl found a summer dress that matched most of her wardrobe.
When you went up the stairs to the garden, I saw your ass: that beautiful bubble butt. I blinked and looked away. I wasn’t sure if you’d been wearing a g-string or nothing at all.
(Three months later, with you bent over my knee, your pale arse red-rore, coated in hand-prints and bite-marks, I smiled wryly at the thought of my past self, seeing that beautiful butt for the first time. And I laughed at my past hesitation.)
That night, on the patio among the mosquitos, it was dark and hard to see your face. You got to talking about how horny you were. You told me that you’d made yourself come while stopped at a red light that afternoon.
I asked if that’s why you weren’t wearing any panties. You laughed and told me that you didn’t wear underwear with dresses.
I still remember thinking that girls like you didn’t exist outside common male fantasies.
(That night you hiked up your red-rose dress and fucked yourself on my tongue).
You made tofu for me once. We met in a park somewhere near collingwood (or was it’s Fitzroy? 5 years, man), and your brought it in these stupid little tubs that just had glad-wrap in lieu of lids.
I asked where your Tupperware was, and laughed.
You didn’t see the humour. Probably because you’re a conniving cunt of a woman. You never appreciated jokes at your expense.
(Two months later, on one of those 35degree nights, we fucked the mattress off the bed and ended up downstairs, with the doors to the patio open.
You turned the lights on when you walked naked to the kitchen to get water:
Your face was sore from my hands, and I swear I still have a notch in my side from one of your nails. Your makeup was smeared, running in dark rivers down your face. Your throat was red. Bite-marks on your tits. Claws on your stomach, your thighs. Hand-prints on your ass.
You saw your reflection in the stainless steel fridge and said to me: “how fucking sexy did you just make me?”)
We ate the tofu and I said I liked it. But you were in a shitty mood. You were far away that day. You didn’t have time for me.
I tried to talk to you about music. About games. Magic. Any of the normal stuff but you wouldn’t have it.
When you left you barely said good-bye. You got on your bike and peddled away. I remember thinking that was really sad.
(Eight months later when you left forever, I wished that your at least ridden away without saying a word, rather than disappearing across the sea because you didn’t want me.)