For several months after her separation she would wake up just before dawn and slip out onto the balcony for a cigarette, a glass of tea, perhaps both, and sit looking at the railway bridge in the distance waiting for those first early morning trains that took clubbers somewhere, maybe not home, and cleaners to work.
Halfway down her cigarette she would anticipate the waterfall that would flow from her tear ducts and river run down into her mouth and change the balance of flavour of the tobacco and she’d say, fuck you. Fuck! You!
At first she thought she was addressing her ex-husband but soon came to recognise she was also confronting her oh so perfect sister.
It took her three or four months before she realised the state of her negativity. It just wasn’t doing her any good. Fuck you! Was replaced as a mantra by, Yes, I can do this. Whatever it is. I must confront mountains.
One day in a shopping mall trailing in the wake of mother and sister she stopped and looked up to the atrium. To the glass walkway where shoppers, pedestrians, navigated from floor to floor, shop to shop.
She looked up and thought they are all strangers who are touching upon my life. Standing on my head. Unknown beings whom she might have fucked, gotten wasted or slept with as she obliviously wandered in a carnal wilderness. Love is a twisted thing.