Everybody's Girl

Longsight M13

Years ago, I was in love with a hep young cat.  He had his own style and his own way, and it made me swoon.  My friend F said that one day, he'd figure me out.  This fella would walk up to me and say:

TwentySeven, I want you in Pumas.

Never quite went down like that.  Which is ok - because truthfully, I always fancied myself more of an Adidas girl.  But boy... I'd have worn those Pumas, with everything I had. 

Ian Brown, ex of your beloved Stone Roses, has his very own shoe. 

(Thanks, TMN.)

Substance

Ask me no questions, I'll tell you no lies
The past is your present, the future is mine
- New Order

My friend comments on how thin this man in front of us has become.  You say he's healthy, and advise us not to worry.  "Some people just have a naturally low weight, that their body feels most comfortable at." 

You ask for a lighter.  I pass you the torch. 

But I resist the urge to tell you:  I have measured this man's weight, countless times, without balance or gauge.  I can estimate body mass with the tips of my fingers, and count muscle groups with my toes.

Instead, I just smile that smile, and say: "Well, good then!"  A display almost perfected, almost convincing. 

Then I grow another scale or two, and bite my tongue til it bleeds.

Hold my hand for me I'm waking up

There were bicycles everywhere. All of them Bianchi. You and I were arguing. Then fighting. I was losing. I'd been trying to interfere, as always, and you were steadfast. Then there was the milk. You threw the bag at me, and walked away, finished. I threw it to the floor, and stomped on it. The heel of my Mary Jane punctured the plastic. I dashed downstairs, and headed outside.

Gallons upon gallons of milk poured out over the hardwood, flooding the floor. It flowed down the stairs, in a wave of frothy white. I slammed the door behind me.

I spotted an old station wagon, with the back hatch open. I climbed in, and crouched down into the fetal position. It's a good thing I'm here to drive you home, you said.  Turning around from the front seat, you reached to touch my face.

Seems there are two of you. And only one of me. Is it any wonder I'm so exhausted.

If you are falling, I'll put out my hands
If you feel bitter, I will understand
I love you - I am the milkman of human kindness
I will leave an extra pint
-Billy Bragg

I think it's today... yeah.

Folks will tell me that the best thing to do right now, is get out from under the blankets, be merry with friends, and forget all about being miserable and misunderstood.

Those folks would be wrong. I prefer the advice of Lennon and McCartney:

Hey! You've got to hide your love away.

Oh, and also? Valentine's day swans are just plain mean.

Winter

With your record loud on the stereo, I'm finding it hard to concentrate. I immerse myself in melancholy.

Except for a small bit of paper, and a saved voicemail or two, there is no tangible evidence of you and I. But I surround myself with flashbacks and moments. I press them to my chest, and take a solemn second to thank each one. Some of our moments are framed under glass, and remain unscathed. Others are dog-eared, from all the going over. They lie under my pillow at night, and travel with me through the day.

Last night, I put on my winter coat for the first time this year. Tucked nicely in my pocket: another memory of you.