His biggest fear is that we won’t want to live in each other’s country.
His biggest fear is geography. Mine rustles around in bins, disrupting
the peace. Thin wooden window slats separate our flat from back streets
of Stratford. Urban foxes scream us out of sleep. On weekends we join in,
masterfully. I think this city stole my sense of humour. I notice it sometimes
on the opposite platform. Glint of amber, then gone, squealing, into the night.
This part of town is embarrassing me. Street scraps and such. Sweet starlings
fall in with bad crowds, let each other bleed out onto zebra crossings,
well, he won’t want to stay now, will he? Thank you very much. Couldn’t
have died quietly, out of sight, for the cause? They aren’t pack animals, foxes,
little known fact; they favour their own company.
Summer ejaculated prematurely all over June. I spent the longest day with the lights off.
London bought all the fans so all that was left for us was the handwritten sign from the electrical department of John Lewis that read ‘all fans sold out’. That sign cost £24.99. Bargain. We were high on hot. We glistened. The Central line leant us other people’s heavy wet salt
sweat dribbling down my torso; I reach through the dark, behind the blinds, to heave the bedroom window open in anticipation of breeze. If anything, the air gets warmer. Outside holds us in a suffocating stalemate. The foxes have woken the birds too early. The birds mimic local car alarms. An almost dawn chorus of replica Hondas - we are nostalgic for the originals
we are naked. We are nesting. It is post sunrise but pre-alarm clock. The landlord lets himself in. Ignores the ‘all fans sold out’ sign stuck on the front door, to ward off unwanted consumers. We are reminded that we are just tenants. There for the taking. We are foxes, feebly shrieking our rights into the hallway whilst rummaging to cover our flesh.