Are you OK, Paul? She asked.
And he looked up at her all red and sweaty
said,
I don’t love you anymore.
I haven’t for some time.
Can you believe it, Ava?
He was on one fucking knee! She told me,
I thought that he was trying to propose.
So off she swiftly popped back to her mum’s until
she found the room in our house – our bit of house.
Bunkbeds
and a dose of thick, hot shame.
She was great though, Ava, I really liked her – fun and
sweary, sad in quite a powerful way – but her job meant
she had these early mornings and late nights,
and so beyond that evening
I never really saw her much again.
Nearly, Ava!
No cigar.
The others in the house I only glimpsed.
Or heard.
One of the graphic designers was called Rickie – he was
messy – handsome in a cartoon villain way.
The toilet next to his was only used by him – tiny
toilet. Tiniest sink I’ve ever seen.
That tiny sink was so encrusted with – what –
toothpaste? Spit? – it looked like something from a cave.
He seemed nice enough,
but almost every night in his room alone
he’d play the same video of Queen at Live Aid 1985 (full
set) full volume on repeat and sing along.
It drove me mad – it drove us all mad, I imagine.
One day I saw him in the kitchen – pasta,
marmite, block of cheddar – and asked if he could
maybe sing less loudly
and he looked at me confused.
Queen..? I said.
Nothing registered, his face was blank.
The singing?
Still nothing.
