You know there’s something not quite right about her but you continue anyway, the tequila slammers don’t help. Having lost the love of your life doesn’t help either. She looks similar to her but much less butch, much more sleek and bubbly- a newer younger model. Why is she interested in you? Is it the cuddly rolls on your belly? The fact that you can’t be arsed with salons? The stench of a hot wound following you?
She’s hailing down a late night taxi. Giggling and flicking her long dark hair around. She nearly trips in her stupidly high heels so you jump in and hold her up. It’s easy, she weighs half as much as you and you don’t wear heels. Together you bundle into the taxi.
The city flashes by with all of its colours in a blur. Past hoards of drunken zombies stumbling home for bed or ready to ravish each other till the early hours. You still can’t place what’s wrong with her. You’re both smiling slightly but not saying a word. There’s static in the air, it passes through your hands.
Maybe she’s a murderer. Maybe you’ll arrive at her house and she’ll have lamps made of sewn together nipples. You arrive at her flat and it’s okay. Better than being in a house still marked with another lover’s history. There’s no fleshy lamps or a shrine of skulls, which puts you more at ease. You rush into the bedroom together to have some sex. It’s okay. It’s better than finishing sex and feeling like you guilted your absent lover into trying it. Convincing them that the “spark” can be ignited but instead you finish and feel like your heart is full of coal.
You lie down in silence, nothing heard but your heavy breaths. Then you realise the weird feeling you still have about her has no truth. The truth is you’re not okay and sleeping with a newer model won’t replace what you lost. She asks you to stay but you quietly leave while she sleeps. You swear at the stars as you walk home in the dark. You curse your ashen heart for still spitting embers into the night. Yet, still, you hope one day it stays alight.