the monologue


(He picks up a moss green scarf from a coffee table. Puts it down, picks it up, holds it limp.)

 You stare at me. The sky tilts, do you see it? Eight months. That means when I’d made you pancakes that Thursday when you were sad. When we’d sat all Sunday planning our trip. When you’d written in my card that I was, what, ‘the only man there’d ever been for you’. Eight months of me living in this life that was only being shored up by me not finding out about you.

I liked how you asked to meet on Brooklyn Bridge, oh very dramatic and I like how you we sure to tell me everything so I didn’t think I was being lied to. Did you learn your speech like a little monologue, practice it in your bathroom mirror. Rehearse it with him. No, the truth from you is like a still butterfly from the beast.

Eleven years, don’t think it means anything. Turn and they’ll be gone. But it’s fine because I can have everything – considerate. I can have the coffee machine, the pans, the sculpture I had made for you, the paintings you chose.

When she’d been talking this balloon had floated up behind her, in the shape of Micky Mouse.

And she’d stared at me. Like this fragment of my life that had never belonged to me. Like we’d never gone swimming that time in our clothes ‘cause the rain had made us so wet it didn’t matter. Like I didn’t know how your voice smoked when it yelled, giggled when it shouldn’t. A passing piece. Never mine. Never mind though eh when I can have everything, and you can go and get new things, and you can go and have your new boy with your new sentimental memories.

Oh you left your scarf, nice touch. A symbolic gesture ‘cause I’d bought it for you when you were cold, ‘cause god forbid you be choked my ‘kindness’ any more. I’ll burn it – think you’re the only one that can make gestures. I’ll burn this along with all your clothes and books and paintings, throw the flaming mass from the window so it rains down on the cars below and the sparks chase the shoppers.

(stares down at the dropped scarf)

 Why wouldn’t you give me the chance, to speak, to fight. All on you, but there was an us. Two people. Then three. Then one and two.

That balloon behind you: ethereal. Like it had never wanted to be anywhere but the sky.


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