Every year it's the same, this fight. It's a cyclical thing. Regular. Seasonal as Japanese tourists outside Burberry's, city twats braying at each other over warm pints by Blackfriars Station, new freckles, daddy-longlegses, and mosquitos smeared on walls.
...sits in full sun, notebook at his side. Closes eyes and tips his head back, clasps arms behind head. The undersides of his arms are taut, whiter than the rest of him which is golden like toast. He never sunbathes. His grandad was Indian so his skin just sucks the tanning-stuff from the air. His jeans are sliding down his skinny hips, the hems raggedy from scraping along London streets trapped under his Birkenstocks. His 'LIFE IS UNCERTAIN, EAT DESSERT FIRST' t-shirt is lying on the ground beside him. He smiles and exhales slowly. No tension. Small of back pressed flat to the concrete. The sun is turning his eyelashes golden.
ready to go out. Is looking in mirror which is perched askew on the radiator.
Is lifting one leg to try and fit all of her in mirror. trying to see
if those boots go with that dress. And tights. And coat. And scarf, goddamit,
she's even got a filmy red scarf tied round her neck and it's EIGHTY DEGREES
OUTSIDE and 'what
are you doing Amp' says Jake coming in from the garden. 'What
are you doing why are you wearing THERMAL FUR-LINED GRANNY BOOTS IN AUGUST
they go with this outfit' she
says in tones of one talking to an idiot child. Jake strides to the front
door and flings it open and sunlight floods the room. Outside a girl is
slinking by in a denim skirt, bikini top and flip-flops.
Autumn. that's what happens if I do. I've only got to say it about 23 more times now, and autumn will start, and Jake will hold me personally responsible. 23 more times and then the smell of autumn will creep into the air, the smell of gym clothes left in the bag too long. (Very smart gym clothes, mind, worn by a very clean and proper woman who uses strong soap and a petigrain and vevetier perfume; but a scent of sweetness and corruption nonetheless). Bring it on, I say, and if it takes an incantation, then that's what we'll do. After three now: 'I fucking HATE summer, I fucking HATE summer, I FUCKING hate summer, I fucking hate SUMMER, I...' oww oww oww my bloody boyfriend is hitting me