Thursday, 3 March 2005
all work and no play makes for dull words
Talking with elastic syllables, she teaches pronunciation to economic migrants and organises parties in that cold cove with its dunes and grasses, no sound escapes from the nights spent there. There is a dual boasting from his lips, he wishes to import a slander, reaches across the table, slides her drinks out of the way with a delicate fist, and offers a leafy, withering look, dull eyes. She returns the look, but as a question and continues talking to someone else, but is interrupted again, attention sought and gained, she turn and pushes hair from her eyes, impatient. He relishes an exchange. There is to be drama tonight. She enthuses, still talking to someone else, starts sentences before thinking about them, repetition of fundamental sadness, speaking as though under duress and growing slowly more disappointed as the conversation turns to the window and to snow. She again states her happiness, a demonstrable empathic urge, I can listen, she wishes. He, officially, is now thinking about himself. There is a third party, someone not really present, and this third party has not risen to the challenge, a refusal of words, not party to the invisible game of obligation and memory, the frozen wastes of attachment that thawed too quickly and broke, fissures spearing through acquaintance, their end needed to be, but there is an assumed balance these days, the symbiosis that accompanies dead love, they are even able to sit in the same room and not speak, and someone threw themselves off the bridge yesterday, and that’s it.