bpm

I'm pretty certain that I could stop time around this darker hour, if I wanted to. Like, I could just think about slowing the world down and it would comply. Like the boy who slowed his heartbeat: "I can make my heart beat slower," he said. I put my ear underneath his collarbone, to document the evidence. And he did. He made his heart beat slower.

"Take the day off work", he said.

"I can't," said I.

I didn't.

"I hope you're not doing anything naughty," joked my boss the day before Labour Day. You wouldn't understand, I thought. Culture clash. Then I went and committed the one act I regret.

"You look a lot better than I do", he yawned from his catafalque of a mattress. He smelt vaguely of whiskey as I pressed my nose into his scapula. "Yes," I said, "I had a shower." And I'm wearing make-up. Oh, and I used your soap. I hope that's ok.

"I wish we could have breakfast," confessed the back of his blonde head to the almost-empty room. I picked up underwear up off the floor and laughed at myself. I've never been one to like blonde boys. Not before and not since. This is ridiculous. 

My 'mature' self would scold my coming-of-age foolishness. Live a little more recklessly, she would say. No, she would say: If you're going to be reckless, do it with full commitment. Don't chicken out in the morning. 

Oh yes, I would rather betray the people I love than the part time job I don't even need. I had four grand in the bank, that year. Spot on, teacher - I am so accommodating. Fitting where it doesn't count and resisting all goodness til the end. Resisting sleep and welcoming bursting stomachs. Lack of sleep leads to an early demise, my mother threatened. Fuck off, I said. Fuck off.

Then I threw a plate through the window. Did I prove my point?

I slept with the weather spitting at me for two nights and then I invested in some masking tape. On the fifth day I emptied my savings account. With resent. Picked out an aesthetically pleasing piece of sharp and tried to dig it into my right thigh. But I really hate pain. I do. I didn't get very far. I probably scratched out two layers of seven skins. What a joke.

Laughing at myself, collecting the night before off his floor.

So I paid twice, in the end.

I paid to drive the winding hills of some place I couldn't pronounce. I listened to my favourite songs in alphabetical order. I resisted sleep and substituted it for make up. I substituted sense for a fleeting Hollywood score.

What's the score, dear Nathaniel? Dear Nathalia? My dear, my dear. Oh dear...

The rain gave me a fright when it finally came. I swear it put the house in motion. It ushered the car across the white lines (briefly). It snaked its way onto my bedsheets through the masked hole. Clutching my little transparent triangle, there sat I. Whispering, go slower. Go slower. Go slower.