Apartment Story

Ruth Isabel Field

Apartment Story
Ruth Isabel Field 2014
Contact me at: ruthifield@gmail.com








For anyone whos tried Tinder.












You know
Im terrified of the telephone
but its nearly 2am and were still talking
(Dear god,
thank you for the cosmos,
chemistry,
and internet connections)
I hope you dont mind that Im touching myself
as your whisky smooth voice (with that cigarette rasp)
whispers about what youll do to me
when I drive to Wellington this weekend
with Sad Songs for Dirty Lovers
playing on repeat
and I asked a stranger on the street
if he knew that atoms are mostly made of nothing
because I needed to share the idea
that there isnt very much to me
I wish I believed in destiny
divine intervention
or at the very least,
you and
there are 7,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 atoms in a human
and each one is emptier than the universe
so say youll stay
well be two bodies in a bed
(dark matter, dying stars)
emptier than everything.

Hes got a plain grey t-shirt on and blue skinny jeans. The denim is ripped. He tells me the
tears are authentic; hes worn them right down until theyre ruined.
*
Wine? he asks, and I nod, too nervous to form words. I sit on the corner of his couch,
fiddling with my rings, taking up as little room as possible. He leans down and kisses me. Its
soft and tentative, like hes being careful; like hes worried that I might get the wrong idea if
he goes all in. He breaks it off and takes a step back. You dont waste time, I smirk, finding
a voice that isnt mine. He laughs and heads for the kitchen. Im not one to sit around for
three hours trying to work up the courage to kiss you, he replies.
*
So every few minutes we taste each other, testing the water. We get up. He puts music on.
We press hard against every surface in his apartment. He collapses onto the couch, leaving
me leaning against the wall, breathless. Were sizing ourselves up, dizzy, confused by the
connection, by the chemistry. He shakes his head, looks me up and down. You have nice
legs, he says. I smile shyly. I can see his erection through his jeans. The bulk of it worries
me.
*
I stumble clumsily, wanting more wine. Suddenly hes at my side. For a second I think hes
being a gentleman, offering to refill my glass. On the floor, he demands, pushing me into
his arms and lowering me down so that Im flat on my back in the middle of his lounge. He
holds his body against mine until I gasp a little, but when I try to direct his hand between my
legs he pins my arms above my head.
*
Hes on the couch again. Im sitting on the floor at his feet. He looks down at me and I cant
help but grin up at him. Youre fucking cute, he says, so I grin even more. And all the
members of The Smith Street Band are grinning as they sing about cigarette kisses and
driving long distances. And all the drunk kids grinding in the city below us are grinning. And
somewhere in the distance, my future self is thinking of this moment and grinning. They said
theres a storm brewing; the sky is about to slice itself open with a sly smile. Its raining with
a wink. I had a hole in the middle where the lightning went through. And god knows what it
is were all grinning about, but doesnt it feel good?
*
Whats the time? he asks, and I tell him its just after ten. Hes says its late and we better
go to bed.
*
I whisper, Turn the light out, say goodnight, no thinking for a little while. Lets not try to
figure out everything at once. And seconds after Ive recited the lines, Matt Berninger
croons the exact same words through the Friday night dimness, his voice finding the gaps in
the blinds, slanting like moonlight. Cyclone Lusi is caressing the horizon. Clouds are swollen
blue with haematomas and possibilities are about to burst like blood vessels and the air is
heavy with heady chemistry and in his bed I can barely breathe.
*
My throat is dry. From the sex and from the wine. He gets me a drink, sparkling water with
lime. But before I finish it he takes it back, pouring its iciness onto my stomach and letting it
drip down between my thighs. And the sky tears like the knees of skinny jeans worn down
by singer-songwriters with rough cigarette voices and soft knowing kisses.
*
He goes to the bathroom but doesnt close the door fully. I lie naked on his sheets and
watch him pissing.
*
In the morning he wakes me up with his erection. We plan to go out for breakfast but spend
so long in the shower that we dont have time. So hes naked in his kitchen making coffee.
Im putting on makeup in the bathroom mirror but I keep looking over my shoulder so I can
stare at his skin. And his fridge is as empty as the rest of his bachelor pad. So we lie in bed
and eat the only food in the apartment: Guinness chocolate. I stare at his arms and his eyes
and his cock. We talk about religion.
*
Theres always time for last minutes. We kiss frantically in the elevator as it goes down,
stepping apart just as the doors open, grinning at the sleepy-eyed strangers in the lobby.
*
On the way to my car he cups his hand to his mouth and lights a cigarette. And I swear hes
the goddamn sexiest thing Ive ever seen. An outsider is walking towards us, laughing. And
Im laughing. And all the singer-songwriters who ever wrote about the mornings after are
laughing. And all the hungover kids emptying their stomachs into the city are laughing. And
somewhere in the distance, my future self is laughing at my past selfs belief that I might
never feel this good again. The storm is scabbing, bleeding behind the eyes. The fabric is
ripped. The stranger shakes his head knowingly at my walk of shame.
I dont think things will ever be the same.
















Giving you a blowjob makes me make metaphors about modern masterpieces AKA Im
crazy about you
Im leaning over the handbrake with my head in your lap
straining against a fully extended seatbelt
coming close to some glorious choking
as we speed down State Highway 56,
golden wheat fields flicking by,
the sun setting behind us in a glow of yellow
the same shade van Gogh once swallowed
in the hope that it might make him
a little happier on the inside
I swear to god youll drive me insane
but I like the kind of reckless we are
one hand on the steering wheel
the other up my skirt;
were two people who have a tendency
of putting their foot on the accelerator
when we should be hitting the brakes
and you say
you like to watch my face when we fuck for days
as it flickers with that uninhibited gasp of honest art
Im laughing
you make a masterpiece out of me in the middle of nowhere
on a late summer evening as winter is gaining momentum
and the natural high still doesnt subside
as wheat fields roll into city lights
and the sunflower sunset gives way to a starry night
so I stare at the sky above Wellington streets
wondering if this is the reason why
van Gogh created his most famous art
with its moody blue swirls
and brilliant gold streaks
while painting the view from his room
in an insane asylum.






















I know its different with him because we both want messy fucking spit and sweat and
cum, sticky skin and stained sheets not the careful clean kind of sex where I wont let him
do certain things because Im embarrassed about the way I look, like when he forces me
face down on the bed and eats me out from behind. I protest for a second and then give in
to the pleasure.
And I catch him staring at my body like Im a magic trick; like he cant quite believe what
hes seeing.
Weve had a weeks worth of orgasms in one night, he says with a smile. My legs ache in
that pleasant sort of way and I tense my muscles just to feel the pain. We eat so much of
each other that we forget to be hungry, until all our bones are hollow. He grabs handfuls of
my skin and pulls me close. He pushes my head away and sinks his teeth into my skin. I
know he needs to be alone. Neither of us wants to bloat into one of those couples who
become indistinguishable: who stay in and watch TV every night, tasting each other like
reheated leftovers, living life like repeated episodes.
We only put on our clothes when we have to go outside.
We only go outside when we have to find food.
Its half past one before we even have breakfast.
But he falls asleep in seconds and I stay awake for hours. And although it feels safe here - in
his little apartment in Wellington with its tiny kitchen and oversized shower, with the blank
walls and fold-down bed and the neighbour who can hear us fucking five times a night; even
though the first time he slid inside me I was so satisfied I nearly said things I shouldnt have;
even though he makes me so hungry I forget to want any other substance, even though I
want to want him as much as I humanly can I cant get comfortable when Im trying to fall
asleep with his arms around me. I need to toss about. I try to untangle myself from his limbs
without waking him. He sleep talks and it doesnt make sense. I doze feverishly, and in my
dreams the sound of my stomach rumbling turns into the sound of a tube train rattling
through the London Underground.
There was that time I stood beneath a streetlight in Camden Town, drinking mulled wine
and watching the punks walk by. I ate street food beside the canal as the watery sun
dripped down.
I feel sick to my stomach when I see pictures of England without me in them.
I thought I was capable of the kind of committed abandonment that big city commuters
exhibit, sprinting towards waiting carriages and throwing themselves through closing doors
in desperation, anxious to get onboard, as if the next train wont leave for days.
But maybe Im not supposed to be rattling away.
Hes the first person whos made me want to stay.


















Sexy smudged mascara
thin skin under eyes
lust like shadows across faces
A thick scab and congealed blood
your hand over my mouth when we fucked
so you were in control
so you didnt have to kiss me
the rip in your jeans
that I put my finger through
making circular motions
oh, you know,
snakes eat their prey whole
jaws dislocate
I think Im almost in love with you.










Put different peoples heart cells into separate petri dishes and they will beat
independently. Put them in the same petri dish and they will beat in unison. Thats not a
metaphor. I just think its interesting.
You say, You have to understand this is hard for me too, following my head instead of my
heart. I dont fucking care. I hope you feel arrhythmic when you remember bare skin
weekends.
Outer space is 62 miles away. It would take me under an hour to get there if I could drive
straight up into the sky. Id make a road trip playlist, all drum beats and brooding lyrics.
Imagine me sitting on the edge of the atmosphere with my legs dangling, like when I was
young and alive and I used to sit on the concrete wall outside school and watch the boys
drive by. I was so much in lust I thought it meant something. Adolescence was a handful of
crumpled storm clouds. I still have thunder in my veins. You make me flatline every time it
rains.
Im looking for love like Im looking for small change under lifes couch cushions. And while I
search, God is watching a soap opera on a flat screen TV where all the characters are sick or
heartbroken or dying in explosions. If I drove to outer space Id wind down the window and
yell at him just before I got to the place where there isnt any oxygen. Id use my last breath
telling God hes fucking useless.
After we have sex I lie next to your body in bed and I can see your heart beating at the base
of your throat, like you have swallowed a lump of love and it got stuck in your oesophagus. I
put my finger on your pulse. I know whats coming.
Its been raining all week. And in the womb, the human heart is fully developed before the
brain. Im not suggesting anything. I just think its amusing.





Its the perfect day to break someones heart. Goddammit, I really detest that phrase. Its
too much of a hyperbole, especially when youve only been seeing someone for seven
weeks and you werent even going out in the first place. Nonetheless, its the first real day
of winter: the sun is watery and pale, a constant rain is battering against the window pane
and the air contains that biting coldness, the one where you need a coat or a coal fire or a
cuddle. Were fogging up the glass with all our useless breathing.
*
Its not a life or death situation, is it? he says. And theres a messy silence, the distance
between us spilling over with my tears the ones I was trying flailing failing to hold back -
until suddenly I find myself desperate to explain, my voice cracking as I say something
anything - as I choke on my shame and admit finally admit - I have thought about killing
myself every day this week. And he whispers, What? even though I know he heard what I
said because he has tightened his grip on me, holding me more bravely than anyone has
ever held me before. I cry into his chest, tears flourishing like ink spots on his grey t-shirt,
expanding violently like blood seeping from bullet wounds.
*
I need a cigarette, he says, Lets go for a walk. And I tell him no, because I am at my
most ugly when I am full of emotion and I dont want anyone to see me like this not him,
looking at me when Im barely beautiful; not me, trying to fix myself in his bathroom mirror
or catching my miserable reflection in shop windows; not the bored man behind the counter
at the Cuba St Superette who sells milk and cigarettes; not the students on the corner,
battling the Wellington wind as they walk home from their weekend jobs. Were all
disorientated because its already dark and were not yet used to daylight savings. You
need to get more fresh air, he reasons, from the warmth of his room. And I snarl at him,
Because fresh air is going to change my brain chemistry. He looks so sorry that I smile to
show that I didnt mean to stab so hard.
No, I dont understand it at all, he says sadly.
*
We stand on somebody elses stoop and he smokes. Ive got my hood pulled up over my
head, less because Im trying to protect myself from the weather and more because Im
trying to protect myself from the world. He knows Ive never smoked a cigarette before, but
that I want to give it a go I want to give everything under the sun a go, and then
everything above it, too, and then everything that lingers in the corners where sunlight
doesnt reach - so he offers me a taste. I hold it awkwardly the same way I hold hearts,
sanity, happiness - but when I press it to my lips I only cough a little. And I almost kind of like
it. I think I could do this daily: smoke cigarettes. Every drag bringing me a little closer to
death.
*
He wont let me go home because my house is two hours away and Im upset. Im not
going to drive off the road at 200km an hour, if thats what youre worried about, I say
sadistically. He tells me not to make jokes like that. We watch Breaking Bad and eat pizza
instead. Hes up to season two but Im still back at season one. I have no idea whats going
on. I have been taking prescription painkillers or drinking every day for so long that I get a
headache when I dont. The only days I have been sober are the ones when I wake up in his
bed and now he doesnt want to see me anymore but he really likes who I am as a person
and how I fuck. Im too much; Im too much for anyone; Im too much for everyone
including myself.
*
We get into bed wearing our underwear. Im big spoon, he says. So we lie together, our
bodies perfectly curved like two speech marks placing the idea of us into ironic quotation.
He holds me hard. I ask him if its okay if I take my underwear off because I usually sleep
naked. He says not really but I do it anyway. I want to have sex but he wont let me because
it doesnt feel right. And I want to know why one conversation makes a difference. Why
he fucked me this morning when he already knew what he wanted to say, when he knew he
was going to break my heart later. That old hyperbole. He still lets me give him a blowjob,
though. His cum isnt as bitter as it should be.
*
At 6am I get up. I shower. He watches me dress. I pirouette for him in my purple lace
lingerie. This is the last time you get to see all this, I say. He thinks we will end up together
in the future, when he is ready for a relationship, but I am so angry I swear to god Im gone.
Its raining as I drive home. I listen to High Violet and cry in violent bursts, letting the
windscreen wipers soothe me with their repetition. And when Im not crying I laugh because
what is the point of all this, anyway? Its not life or death, is it.
I told you I dont like talking on the telephone
I cant believe you fucked me like that.
What?
Fucked me.
The way I fucked you
like that
Passionately?
Like it meant something.
I choke.
He sighs.
The line goes silent.
How do I even get over that?
A pregnant pause.
I dont know, he says quietly,
eventually,
because he knows exactly what I mean.











miss; verb (used with object)
A boy on a dating app asked, Why do you look so dead in all your photos?
I laughed and laughed and laughed but it sounded so hollow.
Ive been kissing frogs, hoping theyll turn into something other than regret. Ive been
flirting with trouble, hoping it will make me less of a ghost.
Theres an English man in New Plymouth who wants me to spend the weekend with him. He
has a beard and I have loneliness. We have eight other shared interests.
Hell fuck me carefully and youll only come to mind briefly, right when Im on the brink of
blankness.
Because youve ruined Apartment Story. It came on the stereo unexpectedly and I could
barely breathe. It was just after dawn and I was driving. The sun was struggling to get over
the horizon, slipping back down between the sheets of the sky, longing to linger in its lovers
bed. Tired and wired we ruin too easy. Sleep in our clothes and wait for winter to leave. I
cried because I miss all the things we could have been. Anticipatory emptiness. You were a
misplaced prince charming, introduced two chapters too soon and killed off by mistake. But
I frantically sung along: so worry not, all things are well,
well be alright,
we have our looks
and perfume on.
Then I laughed and laughed and laughed until it sounded hollow. I choked on my own slimy
insides. Theres more than one meaning of the word miss, and I hope you understand how
many we encompass
to fail to hit, strike, catch
to fail to perceive, understand, experience
to fail to take advantage of: to miss a chance

to feel the absence or loss of.
The Gospel According to Matthew
You are the only person Ive ever drunk called
sobbing down the phone line at quarter to one on Easter Sunday
resurrecting all those feelings I tried to bury with whisky on the rocks
entombing myself in false happiness for a few hours
only to stumble home alone, roll away the stone and discover
they never really died.
You must have found me so empty inside.
I am sick to death of slick boys with solid limbs
thinking its a cruel kindness
to kiss a fraying body
then leave it to decay
now I dont feel like eating because Im too upset to be hungry
but Im too tired to be upset
and I cant sleep because Im exhausted
I honestly thought you saw what I saw
I miss the way our skin slipped together like spinal discs
but you have no backbone to love me with.
There arent enough offensive words to describe your fucking body
pressed hard against my fucking body, all that fucking sex
with slow whispers on Sunday mornings
as you fucked me a little too lovingly not to fuck me up a lot
when you said you wanted to leave after promising you would stay
Goddammit Matthew
lying is a sin.




A middle note of men.
Im wearing perfume even though it gives me migraines. He says I smell good. My head gets
heavy. Scent has the strongest link to memory and I dont want anyone I fuck to forget me.
The boy I like tells me I have this grin, so I do my best to give it to him. And you said I have a
nice arse, grabbing it hard and pulling me in, hungry bodies backed up against brick walls,
kissing with force, our jeans pressed together desperately like pages from poetry
anthologies, like forget-me-not flowers flattened in frontal lobes. I use ticket stubs as
bookmarks. Two hours on the train to Wellington and there I am, all fours on the edge of
your bed again. I think hes leaving. My London Underground maps are yellowing on the
windowsill. I left my heart on its latch in case you ever came back. He bites my lip. How
strange that I like the idea of you more than I like the possibility of keeping myself whole.
Once, I asked Google, how many pills will it take to kill you? and the shame alone almost
smothered me. He bites my nipple. Sometimes I stockpile release. I was raised in a storm of
priests and nuns and I wear a habit of guilt. He bites so hard it hurts. I orgasm. My soul is a
bottomless pit. The holiness left holes. Sundays are for getting off to girl-on-girl porn. Im
deleting past experiences like browser histories. He buries his head in my neck and
breathes. I grin. Youre gone. Theres a top note of happiness but a base note of despair and
I dont think any of this is going anywhere.









Do you fall in love with every boy you meet? he asks.
I was never in love with you, I laugh.
Jealousy thrashes on the end of the line, and for once its not mine.
Its easier like this, isnt it? I say. Friends with benefits.
Were not tiptoeing around each other anymore. And when he admits that he has also slept
with someone else it doesnt gut me like I thought it would.
I feel like a cigarette, he says on our way back from brunch, while were walking up Cuba
Street comfortably, almost with his hand around my waist but finding it impossible to
synchronise our gait.
Have a cigarette, then, I advise. I hate smokers but hes the one person who could make it
as alluring as they did in the 1920s.
I dont have any. Were about to walk past the very shop where I waited miserably as he
bought a pack of Dunhills to smoke on the night he left me. I point it out but he shakes his
head. Youre not supposed to encourage me to do bad things.
And I promise I wont, so in his bed we most definitely dont slide over each other like slimy
sea creatures slipping out of the depths, spitting scaly affection for a few bright seconds.
I wonder if he ever fish-hooks on what could have been.
Accidentally naked, he lays me bare: You write a lot of shit. All those poor, miserable
me poems
I protest, declaring that he doesnt know how sad I really am
he smirks, Youre not as tortured as you pretend to be.
I punch him in the chest. He rolls over and grabs my arms - listens to my gasps
pins me to the bed
kisses my neck.
You only see me when Im happy! I object.
You only see me when Im happy, too, he says suddenly. And then, almost defensively, I
can be sad.
So I ask him to sing for me. Im surprised when he agrees.
He doesnt look up as he plays the song, just closes his eyes sometimes and disappears to
another place, like the look on his face when hes close to coming. I feel his voice sinking
into my spine like a misplaced scalpel. And secretly I dont want him to ever be anyone
elses, but I do want him to be successful at least I think I do I know if he sings in front of
strangers theyll want to sleep with him, so its inevitable that another girl will shipwreck
against his body someday soon. And yet somehow I like how fucked up that makes me feel.
I try to hide the fact that Im almost crying but after the closing chord he points out the
smudged mascara in the corner of my life and we touch and cut and gasp and laugh like
dissecting something in biology class.