Perhaps not hallucinations. Bad dreams. Memory, imagination.
Small room, single bed, clutter of books, notebooks, scraps of paper on the floor. Discarded pens. White dots on a black Ikea rug. Sometimes she opens the window and leans on the handrail smoking. She is discrete and puts on shorts.
He looks at the kinetic figurative painting. She has a beautiful ass.
She was an Ikea delivery driver last week. This week she spends time having gôuter with friends.
She is sitting at the other end of the bed. Writing. She says its a shopping list but its poetry. Always has been.
Narrative without characters. Characters of empty heads intuitively living life.
Gets up at 5am to pee. Moments later his prick is burning. Do my legs really taste of chilli? she asks as he returns to bed with coffees.
Can I brush your monster messy hair and change green eyes for brown?
I think they are hazel, she replies.
Oh I wasn’t talking about yours. He laughs.
Liar. She laughs.
Woman dressed in a black tunic sits at the edge of a wood cradling a large fish in her arms as if it might be an infant.
In Saigon. HMC. They cook a great sizzling fish dish. Lots of chilli.
Her legs are hot.
He had had the dish in a Vietnamese restaurant on Kingsland Road. More Shoreditch than Hackney. He’s eaten it several times. With a beer or two. What’s the name of that beer?
From the other end of the bed she says to him that he lied. About the woman. She wasn’t wearing a black dress. She was nude but you were afraid to say. The woman was breastfeeding the fish. But as you stood peeing you realised she had gone into the wood. And she was baking the fish in ashes with some potatoes. She had stuffed it with herbs she had foraged from the woods. You didn’t tell me she was naked because you were sexually attracted to her. Her hair was long and dark and messy but you didn’t want to brush it.
He smiled. Don’t you want a cigarette with your coffee?