Hyacinth


Tiny buds that so quickly ignite and the flashing yellow daffodils under a neighbour’s dried hydraenga.  These signs speak of spring. There is much talk at this time of year, as there is at every time of year. It seems everybody got a word or two to say and those who don’t have ventriloquists who do the talking for them. I don’t know if I prefer his monocle on or off his face, both options look initially viable until the square chin and peeling paint can go no longer unnoticed.

I was never handsome. That had never, (thankfully for me) been my ambition.  Ambition of any kind was not expected of dummies, though they were exceedingly good at distracting the eye from that which should have been watched closely; the creeping up of spring and its gloriously inevitable pounce.

Gotcha!

The curious child’s face when the weasel pops couldn’t detract me from the strange scent of hyacinth pulsing in the yellow stained kitchen. An acquired smell, akin to rodent mating spray with a high note of ammonia.

All his working life, think outside of the box, he said, all that blue sky thinking, he said and he said it all without once moving his lips. Jaw ache. Keeping him amused. Guess he’s lonely. Needs somebody to talk to, as he folds over my legs and closes the lid.

The larfs aren’t the same anymore, he’s out-said his repertoire and I hear him wanking, then crying, then speaking in my voice, practising religiously. I Glaswegian Kiss the lid with my wooden forehead. Let me think outside of this box. If I had a head it would ache, like the jaw, like his heart, for anyone to believe he has what it takes.

Revolutions of the same song, slurred and skid marked on the toilet bowl of life. It wasn’t even a real hyacinth. It was a car air freshener he had hung on the handle of the window. There were no favours to be had, only head pain from the sound of his own voice. He was so used to speaking through somebody else’s lips, so used to tasting through somebody else’s tongue, he had no senses since Guenivire left.

He had taken his eyes of her balls and the rough talk and the small talk had somehow become one in the same. Guenivire had had enough and even though I was in my box, I heard her joyfully slamming doors as she skipped out of his life forever.

His narcissistic ego initially had him convinced Genny would come back, but she didn’t, he even kept me out of my box longer, waiting at the stage door. She was much more in demand, her lady boy features and coral lipstick. At first he laughed it off sardonically. Then he started chain smoking again and spitting; most of all I hated the spitting.

Life is unkind, particularly in spring, as the heart withers and the soul retreats in direct opposition to the natural order of the season. The pigeons bonking on the nearby rooves reminded him of Genny and their awkward copulations. I can hear his sighs of regret like a flat lining hospital monitor, as I pretend to sleep, colluding with this box, where his voice hides, knowing full well through this lid and that monocle, without her we shall never see a blue sky.

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