nor did I want to, Ava.
If this was boys – if this was
growing up – no thank you!
I balled my jumper up and pressed it to my face
and tried to smell myself instead and cried.
For me. For him. For the room
which was pitlike, cavelike.
Desperate and damp.
You think I’m exaggerating,
Ava, well I’m not –
within a year, that boy was dead.
Yes, dead.
His mother found him in his room.
I think that’s what I’d felt – resignation or
resolve. Pure unhappiness.
Anyway,
the big black wave filled the room
and held me down, and shuddered over me for – I don’t
know how long – minutes? – hours? –
but that was it –
I’d had enough.
I had to get the fuck out of the countryside.
At dawn I crept up to the museum
through the trees.
My double was waiting there for me – serene,
amid the ‘pub’ men and their looping chatter, looping
song.
I carried her back
into the studio,
positioned her at the desk with one arm raised
as though waving to somebody across the river.
I lit the stove. Stoked it right up.
The glass got steamy.
OK. I said. And gathered my things
and walked away –
glanced back –
she waved.
I heard the alarm begin to sound.
It’s you or me, I said.
I called the owner of the B&B and told her I was leaving,
