twisted love

So their first sunset together was there, in that strip of land between sky and choked up river, abandoned by man to a tyranny of TVs, castrated at the coppery holes where their plugs should be, but glorious, nonetheless, radiating the bloodshot sky. As if to say: forget the news today. Forget Eastenders and Celebrity Big Brother. Not today. Here is the sun. A pile of forgotten fridges conspired together to achieve what failed at Babel; noiselessly they piled on top of each other, suspending doors like paralysed limbs, holding their words and constraining their breath, afraid to utter in the buzzing reports of their occupied cousins the burden of their task, lest they invoke the fate of their biblical predecessors. A shard of memory, abruptly, inappropriately: the school hall warning not to climb inside abandoned fridges- the threatened danger remained implicit, compellingly, so Jonas had searched for abandoned fridges all afternoon, chasing the salty thrill-fear of what he might find inside. Another time, another town. The people there paid to have their abandoned fridges taken to places like these, so their children couldn't climb inside them. Suddenly the taste of the thought displeased him, and he spat it on the ground beside him, where it congealed with the ever-waiting dust.