When I was little I was desperate for a house with a balcony. A decade and a divorce later, as the dark lies across the sky like carbon dust sprinkled over glass, that’s where I find myself. The car park that sleeps below like a dead zebra is lit by the occasional streetlight. The body of tarmac is still and shadowy in the cool night. Cats steal across it from time to time, and from the underground parking lot of the next building, occasional cars curl through and ooze down the road. Tiny flies and dusty winged moths flock to the promising glare of my computer screen, lured to the slow buzzing warmth and light that it emits.
Some things make me so sad I can’t help but cry. Fran always says that I cry at everything. Old men in old suits, with old glasses standing under the neon glare of a supermarket aisle, for example. Wrinkled faces contorted into expressions of confusion, of sadness, of a deep and irrevocable far away-ness. Sad strawberries in a trolly. Eyes in the past, the eyes of someone so utterly isolated within themselves, that they seem to be existing behind a layer of glass. Perhaps a bell jar. God, it kills me to think about.
And then there’s me. I’m a slot machine with symbols that don’t match, no matter how many times you try me. I’m rigged. I’m wired wrong. I’m in love one minute and sick with disgust the next.