LEATHER WALLET
You used to live in
my pocket. I always wondered if it was time to get rid of you yet.
When do I know I have out grown you? I stand and stare at you in my
open palms, the dark round sewage pipe of the bin circling you with a
black halo. It's time to get rid of you. You've been everywhere with
me for half my life. But we all have to leave our lives behind us
sometimes.
In the book shop I
pick up and put down various publications. The Bret Easten Ellis
cover looks like the devil approaching through a sand storm. Next to
me a man, about my age, stands rigidly. The book isn't very
expensive. I instinctively reach into my back pocket. The feel of the
new leather is disorientating for a few seconds. I put down the book
and side step along the display table. Books are stacked like bricks
waiting to build a home. A biography of Robert Capa. The man side
steps. He picks up the approaching dust devil, turns it
disinterestedly in his hands, replaces it.
A text: U COMING
TONITE ?? CANT WAIT 2 C U AGAIN :)
Regarding the Pain
of Others by Susan Sontag. More expensive than Ellis. I hold it out
below me and imagine the drain of the black bin beneath it. The man
leans in. I smell his breath on my neck. It smells strongly of tomato
bolognese. I replace the book. I move around the table. I look
briefly to my left. I see jeans. A stripy jumper. Glasses. A benign,
forgettable face. I look at the shelf of books right next to me. I
immediately forget his face. I see the spine of The Virgin Suicides.
I feel him next to me. I reach for the book. My fingers loosen it
from the others. I flick it out with my forefinger. I smell the
bolognese, mixed with something else – old leather? Burnt wood? The
new wallet feels like a hand in my pocket.
I think of you in
the bin. I think of the pattern I know is too adolescent for me. I
didn't used to mind it. I liked it. I liked its look on you. It was
cool then. The till girl is someone I recognise. I think I went to
school with her. I say, 'Hey – how are you?' We exchange an
uncomfortable dialogue. Behind me I feel the wallet pressing against
my right buttock. Behind me I feel the man recede, in reverse, as
though automated. The girl smiles at me. I can't remember her name.
The smile is grateful. My smile is grateful.
I slip out the new
you, open and leaf through it, hand her a note, stuff it with coins.
It's not you yet. I don't know where behind my back the man is. The
new you goes back to my pocket. Outside is busy. But I don't hear
anything. The sun makes the limestone wall of the town hall glow
golden, the shops illuminated different colours like books on a
shelf. I don't mind the silence.
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