Chapter 2, Part I

 

La Dispute - “Such small hands”

 

I think I saw you in my sleep, darling,

I think I saw you in my dreams

You were stitching up the seams

On every broken promise that your body couldn't keep.

I think I saw you in my sleep.

 

I thought I heard the door open, oh, no,

I thought I heard the door open

But I only heard it close.

I thought I heard a plane crashing,

But now I think it was your passion snapping.

 

I think you saw me confronting my fear,

It went up with the bottle and went down with the beer

And I think you ought to stay away from here

There are ghosts in the walls

And they crawl in your head through your ear.

 

I think I saw you in my sleep, lover,

I think I saw you in my dreams

You were stitching up the seams

On every mangled promise that your body couldn't keep.

I think I saw you in my sleep.

 

I know that someday you'll be sleeping, darling.

Likely dreaming off the pain.

I hope you'll hear me in the street lights humming,

Softly breathing out your name.

 

I know that even with the seams stitched tightly,

Darling, scars will remain.

 

I say we scrape them from each other, darling,

And let them wash off in the rain.

And when they run into the river, oh, no,

Let the water not complain.

I swear that even with the distance

Slowly wearing out your name.

 

Your hands still catch the light the right way

And our hearts still beat the same.

And our hearts still beat the same.

 

Chapter 2, part I

 

The inconsistencies in the motorway tarmac translate into sharp jolts that keep me from falling into a deep sleep, my head tapping against the car window as if my subconscious is trying to send a distress message in Morse code. As I drift in and out of sleep I can see the side of her face in the passenger seat of my 1990 Ford Fiesta a few months before, tears racing each other to the collar of her blouse down flawless brown skin.

 

"I just don't love you any more"

 

How could she not love me anymore? Is that how love works? Occupying every word, every decision, every movement only to be washed away by the morning rain? And what's worse is that this is what we are supposed to want! Something to be revered as the ultimate achievement for a person! Ha! Another great joke. If there is a God, he sure has a cruel sense of humour.

 

Another face begins to break through hers. Much more pale and less pretty, with a short wire brush of a beard clinging to its bottom half.

 

"Wake up mate, we are almost there. Are you OK? You were talking in your sleep."

 

It's my oldest friend John. If I cast my memory back as far as it goes I can see him standing there, present in hand, attending my fifth birthday party I think. I just remember his sunglasses and that it was a scorching hot day for England which makes sense I guess. They took up most of his face, I think they must have been passed down from his dad or something. I didn't get to enjoy that day as I was bound to a bed by some kind of sickness that I can't quite recall. I laid in the shade of the house whilst my classmates enjoyed all of my favourite activities. Luckily for me it rained in the afternoon forcing everyone to go home, leaving their presents and the scene of their enjoyment soaked in water. That was my enjoyment for the day. That, and the image of John in those ridiculous sunglasses. They are the two things that make me smile from that memory. As I start to wake John's face is a welcome replacement for hers as I adjust to my surroundings.

 

"Err, yeah, just a bad dream that's all. Have you called George yet?"

 

This prompts our driver Russell to tear his attention from the road to meet my eye with a smile.

 

"Yeah I just spoke to him, he's going to meet us on Park Street. Yeah! We're in Bristol!"

 

The memory of the last time I saw her lingers, turning my stomach as her words repeat. Eventually as I come to it starts to fade, the prospect of a weekend getting hammered with my three best mates flooding every thought of her. Ever since we first met as kids these guys have had the ability to cheer me up like no-one I've met to this day. I just know this weekend is going to be amazing.

 

Russell finds us a parking spot not far from George's place apparently, and laden with our many bags we begin the climb up the steep hill that is Park Street. It's a busy Friday afternoon and the atmosphere on this bar lined road is one of anticipation for the weekend to come. It's almost like the whole city knows what we have planned. George is as large in character as he is in body, the kind of guy whose presence can be felt from every corner of a bar. It's impossible not to smile around him, I swear he made a funeral into quite a fun afternoon out once. I lift my head from staring at the ground, my body hot and laboured by the weight of so many bags, and I catch sight of George who, thanks to the perspective of the hill, looks even more kingly than usual. Our pace quickens from excitement and we queue one by one for an embrace that lifts each of us off the ground just a little bit. He squeezes tightly and releases just as it starts to hurt, to remind me that I am between these arms on his terms. I don't care, as I never feel safer than those few seconds when I'm being squeezed by that man.

 

He leads us into a doorway between two bars and up two flights of stairs to a spacious living room where we are met by two of his flatmates holding out three cold beers for us. The room and all of its contents cease to exist as I snatch the beer out of an unfamiliar hand and pour its contents over my tongue and down my throat. The liquid ignites my personality back into existence as it courses through my blood. I closed my eyes and took a long gulp as Tom Booth the tired, the haunted, yet I open them now as Tom Booth the charming, the interesting, the valuable. Now the weekend can begin.