Storying Sheffield

That thing

Three suicides and a long sleep. Speaking of thoughts which trap you, then dissolve. You watch the seasons, the hours, call out to the boy in the street. He turns and stares, then walks on. The woman with the pretty face is skipping past your house, laughing. She runs to a taxi. Your brother died painfully, and you were angry because it was not you. At his funeral you wanted to laugh, to shout out obscenities. Instead you hugged his widow, drank weak tea, wondered about the girl who watched you. Later, as you were leaving she gave you her number. You drove into town and got drunk, went home with a woman, slept till midday. It was a Saturday. She was in the bathroom. You looked at her clothes hanging on the bedroom chair, made coffee, tried to remember your childhood, failed. When she had gone, you phoned the funeral girl, and arranged to meet her that evening. You tidied the bedroom, fell asleep watching a film, showered, and went out. She was waiting for you outside the bar. You apologized for your lateness, bought her a large drink, and it began again. Every time you hear of a death, you curse the other’s luck. If you told the girl that, she would leave. As you look into her eyes and smile, you are thinking that you want to die. At the club you buy some pills, dance wildly. The girl is very drunk by now. She has her arms around you as you lean on the wall. You go home with her, sleep till midday. It is a Sunday.