last autumn you told me that Radiohead were overrated and then you showed me some new bands I should really listen to but only in this order and did I know the original line up for that five piece no one has ever heard of and then you smoked another of my cigarettes without asking and blew the smoke towards the window before you put your clothes back on and I would have punched you in your mouth when you said it if I could have but you were holding my right hand at the time so I couldn’t do it but I wish I had now because you never hold my hands anymore
There’s no need to measure out – paint-stripper, heel-tripper, drink like there’s a drought. Knocked back neat, forget that cheat: tonight we’re going out.
Down the dregs and out the door – liquor sweet, aching feet, dance until they’re raw. Then blow a gram, and phone your mam: ninth tequila: floor.
Lights go up and stagger home – kebab gnaw, slack jaw, smell of old cologne. Think you’re fine, but miss the swine: fall asleep alone.
Here’s what you don’t know: I already knew you’d come because I imagined us here I conjured your arrival crafted it, like a scheme like a slight of hand so you never saw it happen. I put a lot of thought into it before I even needed to formed and divined you but – and here’s the thing – I made it look like I didn’t so when you showed up what you don’t know is I already knew you would
Hey listen, here’s one for you: what do women and hurricanes have in common? They both start off a breeze, but then they destroy everything you have! Always liked that one, but can never remember where I heard it… Jim, maybe, or Andrew in Marine Forecasting? Or perhaps just a stranger on the bus, which is equally plausible because – and I’ve always liked this – weather has a place in everyone’s daily lives, not just ours down at the Met Office. You hear it come up in all sorts of conversation. In fact, just the other week, an architect friend of mine met the Queen at the opening of some war memorial, and you’ll never guess what she said to him. One’s hair is being drizzled on. That tickled me pink.
Of course, in my line of work we’re not so focused on your everyday downpour. In Paleotempestology – that’s the hurricane business – you’ve all sorts of meteorological implications to consider, not least of all the official naming of storms. I bet you never thought about how they do that, did you? Well, someone’s got to. I often think back on my career and wonder what prompted me to classify them as I did. How I managed to choose names to summarise each cyclonic thrill. Of course, I realise now that the inspiration was clear all along.
My first was Lisa. Gale force two, if memory serves. Winds of about nine kilometres per hour, fingernails bitten down, and sparkly polish on the nibs, short wavelets with no breaks. Some airborne spray. To be honest, tame, and pretty unremarkable, but there’s a first for everything, isn’t there. It was middle school, after all. Followed swiftly by Monica. Gale force three – a definite let down, with very few scattered whitecaps. Freckled, too. Some experts in the field had said she’d go anywhere, do anything, but no more than a slight draught and flutter down by the football fields and it was over.
Anyway, Naomi came after. Eight, and what an eightshe was. Dark, with a stare that smothered, east-coast-American, beachy-type. Winds of about seventy kilometres per hour, that’s-more-like-it, well-marked streaks of foam along the coastline, filled out, college. Whirlwind romance. Came to nothing with surprisingly little destruction, but after all when you really looked her in the eye there was nothing there.
Olive next, gale force five – six at a push – heavy-set, natural, fairly typical for that time. Winds of around thirty-eight kilometres per hour. Bit scattered, but punctual – arrived and left without a fuss. Some airborne spray, and occasional whistling. Classic, but not common. Low expectations, but could actually move you, in the midst of it all.
Paula surprised us all, predicted a four, and turned out a seven. Sea heaped up high, moderate wave breaks and considerable tree movement. Brisk, free-spirited, adventurous, gusts from all angles, refreshing fifty-five kilometre per hour winds, but died down slowly, only to be caught blowing in new terrain, if you catch my drift.
Then all too suddenly was Rita with was – what, in hindsight, I now see – ten written all over her. Redhead, with a mind of her own; one hundred kilometres per hour tempest winds, erratic, dizzying with very high waves and overhanging crests, resulting in reduced visibility. One way and then the other, knocked your socks off, uprooted you, blew you away. Considerable damage left in her wake. Remembered often.
And as for today, the reading is meagre – light precipitation with mild winds, of no real consequence to anyone not planning to fire up a barbecue, wear a floaty dress, or paint fences. Mild inconvenience, but even so, it unites us in that same way. It’s an opening, a crutch, a fall back. The weather is the Godfather of small talk: always there when you need a favour, but with a price to pay. And yes, today’s is pretty uneventful, but that’s the thing about weather – it changes. Tomorrow will be different – it will bring something new. Tomorrow could bring Sarah, or Sandra, or even Sunshine. Tomorrow could ruin plans, or perhaps make them. It could change it all. But, then again, in this game, who knows – it could well be a lot of hot air.
Gunther did not remember much about his death. In fact, the moment had passed somewhat uneventfully and, had it not been for the audience’s few gasps of surprise and an ill-timed giggle, he might have thought he’d dreamt it up altogether.
Emily had been sat in the second row, slightly left of centre stage – not that he’d been able to see his wife during much of the performance itself. The stage lamps had masked the audience from the players with a brilliantly intense void of white light. He had felt the glow draw conspicuous beads of sweat to his forehead almost the instant he had taken his first steps on stage, like the rapid onset of fever. It had felt like being in the presence of a dying star.
When it gets late, we watch Cops on TV, once all the rest have made their way to bed. Then you make cheese on toast, and I make tea – we feel inclined to sit up late, instead – and though our conversation is quite plain, you’ll show me something funny on your phone, and when we laugh our ribs vibrate with pain, as though at something we should have outgrown. At three or four o’clock we start to shrink; my tired mind begins to wonder whether you’ll think about us sitting here, in sync, when you and I no longer live together. For me, it’s that I’ll miss, though it seems trite – when we watch Cops together late at night.
It was you that taught me to put newspaper between the bottles so they don’t clink when you put the bins out, and how to read a map; you’re handy like that – a born navigator
I still get lost.
There’s a rolling boil deep in my chest these days, rumbling in my tight throat; I let it out in slow sighs, like bleeding a radiator, and pick plaster off the walls you built in the house
I still get lost.
Listen to the soft fricatives of the leaves outside; I think it’s autumn now, and I still see you in the bath water, and smell you in the sea – I want to hear it over and over. I wish you’d tell me
