It’s like a black and white man holding a white piece of paper. Telling you what you see. Asking you what do you see, and you’ll see death. White becomes death. Death becomes the paper.
It’s amusing how thoughts of death just hit you not only in the middle of the night but while Alison was showering and her shampoo smelt of watermelon. A bit too sticky for a smell, like watermelon candy and she didn’t bother with me sitting on the toilet, glancing at her but my gaze fixed on the open door and a notebook sitting on my lap.
I scribbled some words over Alison’s, fixing them a bit, maybe age and wisdom being the cliche here and I kept talking to her as we’d shower of what would she want the artwork to be and what she thought should be on the walls.
I started waking up at night, sometimes a bit too much just to light a cigarette when the night was hidden under the curtains and Alison under the covers.
I wondered when would jealousy pinch me or would it be a slap and would I ever love another woman? The tension seemed to be here but the struggle if I should’ve suggested something seemed to rise along with her light singing against my music, she’d just sit there, first she hummed, then she began singing, sometimes we’d do covers.
She’d kiss me, sometimes, but not too much, mostly when I wouldn’t be paying attention as if she wanted me to forget it.
But then maybe I would, like when I’d be buying coffee, standing in a cue, wanting to just tear the thing open and swallow the beans and then just fling all the-
I told Alison about the girl who had been an ex-girlfriend of one of my friends, I didn’t say names just yet but the beans seemed to hum a name but not give out the letters, as we both drank the coffee. I said that she came from the middle east, did art and had quite a big studio where I’ve played once and it looked weird with all the plants with trails of oil on them and how her grin would be there.
Alison just sat there quiet and I finished my coffee and walked around the room for a bit.
She didn’t talk much, she’d just devour me with her eyes and her hair would grow and sometimes she’d cling onto my hand in the night. I wouldn’t speak much to her making the silent dialogue with her.
I went out another time, I don’t recall myself saying anything, Alison just sat on the couch, watching some news and I just left.
We hadn’t kissed in days and she stopped clutching my hand.
I forgot the address, so I wondered a bit on the street, hoping that I would find the girl, but I didn’t, so I just sat on the pavement, asking for a fag, getting a cherry flavored one from a passenger and a light from the third man in a row and we exchanged eye contact, maybe he flirted slightly, but I just made a long drag and thanked him.
I looked at the windows and one had a plant in blue oil paint. I figured and rang the bell, watching nothing swirl as she opened the door.
I didn’t even have a proper wank after Alison moved in and she stopped touching me. I looked at the girl and smiled.
She had some weed.
A lot of people have weed.
I recall it being rubbish, but I shared the joint and her brother joined in and we just all talked about stuff and I mentioned Alison and how I wanted to fuck her and how everyone was just like fuck america and I went back home with a fuck america intention.
I opened the door just to see Alison lying on the sofa, a bit sad, not raising her head and I sat on the floor, so that she’d put her feet on my shoulders for support.
“So, do you like London?” It seemed like a sad, easy question, but then there has been too much silence and I kissed her leg, Alison smiled.
“Not too talkative.” While her letters were long and she’d rant while in life she just seemed mute lately. I wrapped her legs around my neck for warmth. Maybe she’d react someday, yeah, and I’ll be gray haired and she’d just kiss me on the lips and I’ll just stare at her, because she’s open and then the imagery of her exposing her chest in front of me, takes me and I press my cheek against her leg.
Alison sits up.
She plays with my hair.
“I’m a bit jealous, I guess.” And she laughs, it’s a bit of a joke and it’s London and I look up at her and maybe she doesn’t want to kiss, but I pull her head lower to my own so that I can see her and I just press my forehead against her, her hands are on my shoulders and it feels tense, sexy, juicy, good, as she kisses me, slowly pulling me on top of her, as I slide her jeans down, my own underwear being a barrier, as we keep on kissing and her eyes open sometimes and she smiles wide, sometimes looking back.
Then as we have foreplay she starts talking.
“I saw, um, that VHS you had, Mullholland Drive it’s good. The plot and the characters and what the fuck is going on there?” And all is said in breaks when she grabs my head and sticks her tongue in and I begin the get nervous and I think of the coffee beans and the art girl and I go inside Alison.
We both stare.
Her body receives pleasure.
I am a bit dizzy.
She thrusts back.
It’s a mixture of us biting our bodies, licking sucking, stroking, slapping, grabbing, fucking, it’s literally fucking after all the fluids release she goes on top, moaning and I don’t care and I keep thrusting and it is me fucking the US and I tell her that laughing a bit after I come and she takes over and both comes.
She tells me something against my joke, but I don’t bother, I just watch her, saying that I want to go to New York, just all the americans here are losers who can’t really shag and I laugh.
She tells me to fuck off, laughing, lightening a cigarette and saying that she likes New York.
Sorry for the delay but now I am back, so request:)
I don't know Jamie's girlfriend name, so she is left nameless as choosing a fictional name is literally pairing up Jamie with someone nonexistent, while I know that he dated a girl like that, just not in deep details, but if you do feel free to point out!
Untitled 5Silence Seems To Feed Us 5