Sandpaper thoughts

I’m never busy; I’m a loser, you said. Then you didn’t call for the evening. You were out too late with a friend. The irony flashed like a neon take-away sign.

You were always quoting from one distinguished writer or another, which tended to make me feel under-educated and look like a gaping puffa fish popping my lips to release appreciative ‘ooohs’ and ‘ahhs’. I think you’d missed a trick this time though. After batting away a barrage of feeble, self-conscious and increasingly melodramatic questions: Did loser mean because of the way you’d been acting? Did it imply you were kicking yourself for the way things had turned out? We’re you never really ‘busy’ even amongst masses of people because without me your life was quiet and meaningless? These six words of your own, I concluded, were simply bland and empty. I replied with what I hoped came across as nonchalance. It wouldn’t do to admit my confusion.

I rolled on the bed in a mess of thick winter duvet, completely ridiculous for June. It smothered me and I reminded myself of the promise I’d made weeks ago to purchase some summer bedding. Despite the ‘monsters under the bed’ fear lurking at the recesses of my mind, I’d taken to sticking a leg out to keep cool of a night and rolling it down to my midriff. If it was quiet enough I’d sleep with the window open but I often got bitten, which irritated to say the least. There was also the threat of another late night drinking session from the Polish men three doors down who had no qualms holding their amplified conversations until 3am on a weeknight.

Not that there is anything wrong with raucous, drunken conversations. As long as I’m the one having them.

My, coated sandpaper mouth reminded me of my earlier morning revelry. A smile floated up to my lips. It had harked back to the days before grown up life seemed to get in the way and I wound up spending most of my time worrying about other people. This morning I’d gone to bed at 5.30am in the house of someone I’d met three times, slept in a bed with my best friend and talked about boys until we fell asleep, our smudged mascara eyes crinkling with mischievous smiles.

Fifteen hours later and alone in my room, I felt sad. The blank walls seemed trapping; the posed, grinning faces in the photographs lining my shelves were alien; my dresser was littered with disused receipts and an invitation for a wedding two weeks ago where I had cried until my heart wrenched. The small, rented room was silent; the drinking, dancing and laughter of the previous were now just a faint echo and you were out having a good time which never helped. I thought of another of your mantras: ‘We’re all selfish beings’, and it was true although I’d argued at the time that surely you could want the best for others sometimes. I’d reconsidered. Feeling shitty is always exacerbated when you know others are having a fucking ball.