“Course” and he looks with me at the door opening, “do you plan life, or ‘s it planned for yous? That’s basic, first-level shit, that is.”
It’s not her. Maybe he’s right. I am suffering for it – looking for it, looking for the man with nails, waiting for Eve – but, of course, the apple she gave me, pressed in my hand with all the spark and electricity of touch is rotting now. The place smells of decay. The background conversation is flat – a kind of inexpert bashing at keys – murmer and spastic shout and giggles deflating on ugly sharp blades of laughter: no promise, draped in dull boorish theatre played by bored actors – drawn to a sorry cul de sac of fate by following a plot I didn’t bother to read before the performance – among the idiot background cast of another story: looking for her, waiting for her, but hoping she doesn’t find me: sick – sickness, sick, sick, I’m sick: I know that.
“Hey” he’s shaking my arm. “Hey foking aida, pal – don’t get so worried, eh? Life just bounces, mm?” and he nods his head, widening his eyes, and picks his fags up and walks outside, his limbs like implements carried home after a long day.