Five terrible things

That soft pang that precedes the cascading dominoes of my heart

Alright picture this:

I'm sitting on Sam's bed. Hair a little scruffy. Boots hastily pulled off and abandoned in the corner. Jersey off and in a heap.

I am weeping. Big, thick tears slide down my face. I'm starting to get a little snotty. Face red. Then I giggle. Because how pathetic? And then I take a deep breath and cry a little more. I've been counting up on my fingers, listing the 'five terrible things that happened' — my horrible adventure necessitating a visual aid for emphasis — I'm only on number two, and it broke me. But let's wind it back.

One.

I go out to my car and remove the dead leaves that have gathered above the windscreen. A steady accumulation throughout the previous week. The car is also covered in a sandy film that is, to my great displeasure, sticky.

Two.

I drive along Main Road and spritz some water and turn on the windscreen wipers and grimace through the scraping sound of sand against glass as my windscreen gets a lot worse and then a little better.

I notice tiny flecks reflected in the glass and worry that I've scratched it, but then I wipe my knuckle along the inside of the windscreen and tiny bits of fabric move, remnants of a previous clean. But I don't have a cloth. And then I see you, in the driver's seat, your arm bent as you firmly clean the windscreen to give yourself a better view. Are these tiny fabric flecks leftovers from when this car was yours?

Everything is fine, aggressively alright, and then it's not and the whole world seems to crumble.

I feel that soft pang that precedes the cascading dominoes of my heart as something breaks, and I remember, for the millionth time, that it has been so long, and it will be longer still, always longer - this gap since our hands touched and I said, 'Bye, Dad, see you soon.'

Gentle tears stream down my face as I shift into first gear and wave like a mad woman for my parking ticket.

Three.

I park at Cavendish. Lock my car. And notice a tiny gecko, the size of my palm, emerge from a crevice and wiggle across the roof. This little stowaway cannot possibly survive a parking lot, and his death weighs heavily on my conscience.

Four.

I try on some clothes and nothing fits and it makes me feel terrible. I hate how I look and I hate that I care. It is clear that body neutrality, forget body positivity, is still a pipe dream and I actually want my body to be different (thinner).

Five.

I trip coming up the stairs, almost falling. A grocery bag in each hand. My shoe catches my pants and in slow motion, I feel myself tipping over, without a hand to break my fall.

I unlock the door. Place both grocery bags on the floor in the kitchen. March over to Sam. Kick off my boots. Pull off my jersey.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘I just… I just… I feel so sad. And there were four terrible things, no, five terrible things,’ I hold up a hand with outstretched fingers, and start to narrate my story.

Photo by Sebastian V