CC 53: Nine Tiny Red Balloons

I decided to shave off the beard, even though I knew I was probably too drunk to do it with any skill.  Something deep within me called out for the removal of all the irritating spikes raising hell on my face.  They spoke to my lethargy.  And to the missing monitor in my life.

‘I can’t kiss you with your spiky face.’

‘Aw….seriously?’ (laughing)

‘I’m serious.  (punching me in the arm and snickering but then continuing) No, I really am.  I don’t want a big rash on my face going into school.  The kids already have names for me.  I don’t want them calling me Raspberry Ripple or Scarlett O’ Hoora or something.’

‘What names do they have for you already?  Those ones are pretty good though.’

‘Never you mind, go and shave.’

I was careful not to cut myself, but with the wooze in my movement, it was near impossible, and it wasn’t long before the blood started.  Nine tiny red balloons appeared but instead of ripping off little bits of tissue to patch them up as I would usually do, I just kept going.    

Going, going.  Nothing wrong with that.  Going, going, I used to say that to Emer in the last days. Going, going. Like our marriage was on auction.  Going going (until she got angry as fuck and shouted)

'Your books are bad.  You have no taste in music or life.  You lie about your knowledge.  I hate that.  You lie about everything.  You lie about who you are. '

Maybe we both said that to each other.

We fucked up, you know.

'I know.'

'But I love you.'

'I love you.'

'And I love you.'

'And I know.  I love you.'

'And I  know... (as she reached over to unplug something that she couldn’t find and then said)  ….aaah,  I can’t reach it.’

‘Let me help.... (extending my reach to take the plug out. I couldn’t reach either.  But we both knew that the plug had to come out of the socket at some point that evening.)