by Stephanie on December 9, 2010

I’ve become seasonal. Season-affected. Unfolding in the sun, hanging heavy in the rain, a spark-of-sunshine smile cracked through blanket cloud. I watch the cars pause and the people chattering inside, fishbowl tongues flapping. White water, white water, white water.

I sit at the back of the tram next to a man in a long coat. The hem falls against my leg. He moves, shifting his weight, and it brushes the side of my knee. A jolt runs through me. I remember conversations, words caught on breath, like condensation on a cold morning, clouding the space between us and then disintegrating. Here’s a little thing we made together, behind the walls, in shadowy water.

Genius eludes me, so I write a message to myself and pretend it’s from a God I don’t believe in. I write it on my arms, a quiet moment on busy skin.

‘There’s nothing wrong with being cerebral, honey.’

Even this euphoria has wet feet. I pull a piece of apple skin from my teeth—the things you find in your mouth—and I suck on it until I’m sore.

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