He didn’t say anything. He walked across the room and punched the door. He punched it so hard he made a hole (a frayed, clumsy hole that stayed there for weeks while we both skirted the issue of discussing its repair – and, by proxy, it). We both looked at the hole. It was good to have something real to look at.

‘Oh god,’ he said. ‘Jesus!’

He put his head in his hands and stood there for at least five minutes. I stared at him, and as the time passed I started to think, incongruously, how he looked like a child playing hide-and-seek.

Subject: Notes From Purgatory

Dear Man I Once Snogged,

I am sorry I am ignoring you while you sit opposite me here in this waiting room between worlds – for you, Heaven; for me, Hell. It has nothing to do with the fact that you were a dreadful kisser. It is just that I am in a bad place right now and can’t handle social interaction of that sort. I hope you have been a good, honest, consistent person since we last facially connected. I hope you have not subjected your nearest and dearest to sea changes of heart. I marvel at men, I really do. The liberty! ENJOY. It’ll hit you like a ton of bricks at sixty-five and then won’t we all hear about it. I hope you have a happy life with your partner and child – who I hope will be a boy-child, so as to have a better chance in this whole fucking shitshow.

Kind regards,

Jenny McLaine BA Hons.

ART SAID

‘Are you sure? Like, sure it was actually a man that you knew in there?’

‘Yes. Don’t say it like that.’

‘You do tend to be a bit paranoid about these things.’

‘What things?’

‘Knowing people you don’t. Not knowing people you do.’

He was right, too. Sometimes I walk down the street and feel like I know everyone; love everyone. Other days, bad days, I can walk right past someone I know.

BODIES OF WORK

The next morning there is an uneaten melba toast on the floor next to the bed, along with the unpuked-in washing-up bowl. It is very much a tableau of self-possession and restraint. I decide I am not going to get up today, or maybe even ever again. I put my nose into my armpit and inhale the sweat-scent feedback loop. I text Nicolette.

I can no longer deny the malaise

Don’t talk to me about malaise – this morning after my shower I couldn’t even be bothered to moisturise my second leg

I knew you’d understand

I almost reported a man for having a wank in the park and then I got closer and realised he was sanding a chair leg

Clapton, man

Clapton. What’s up?

My soul has been pureed in an unspeakable act of betrayal

Did someone regram you without a credit?