No one’s ever been allowed to smoke in this flat. I light up the cigarette. I feel sweaty and terrible and exhilarated. I feel exhausted. In the bathroom I sit on the toilet lid and unroll my hold-ups, squeezing the cigarette between my teeth, silicon glue squeaking against my thighs. I tie the hold-ups together and open my new laundry basket. I pull off my dress, panties and bra, add them to the basket too. I notice that it is half empty. I’ve been keeping on top of the laundry. I’m so much better at keeping on top of the laundry these days. I go to bed naked and unwashed.

I slip into a black sleep. There are no dreams, only a bright light I know I must follow, soaring white and fast and wild.

PULSES

Neil

The Night Before the Break-up

When I wake up, I can’t remember it all, not straight away, but I recognize the fear, immediately. The same panic, black and gluey. The horror. The excitement. And I can’t quite explain this, but a part of me almost welcomes it. In the darkness, I pick out the outline of Ruth’s body next to mine. When she sleeps, sometimes it is hard not to admit it: things have been bad between us for a while. And this seals it.

The first time it happened I was fifteen and two months and one week. I still slept in my childhood bed. I’d bought a calendar to count down to my next birthday and I remember turning a page that day. I’ve always found it depressing that my birthday is in December, so close to Christmas. It’s no way to party. As a kid I tried to keep it exciting by crossing off each day with a red marker pen, but by spring I’d always given up, grown deflated. Looking back, I realize that even then I thought of happiness as a distant thing, always out of reach. That’s a lousy personality trait, isn’t it? But big news: you don’t get to choose your personality.

The 1994 calendar had cars on it. All my friends in school had ones with naked ladies, but a more risqué calendar would’ve upset my mother and I didn’t feel like buying one, anyway. It wasn’t that I lacked the guts to do it, but that I couldn’t stand people looking down on me, not even back then. I fucking hate being laughed at. Why would I put myself through that ordeal at the newsagent?