TICKLED PINK

I cry my name from the bottom of a tibetan bowl. I wind my shawl closer round my neck and I close my fy for fear I might take fight at the frst sign of fear. I ask her, Whats up with you you seem down, and she does not answer because shes mad at me. Not mad per se, mad at me and around me, burning the air with accusations. What did I ever do? I say. Nothing, she says, and that is the problem. You dont do anything for me. I quiet.
I felt sick most of that day because we had fought in the morning. I hate those mornings. They make me feel all unhinged and hammered. I drove to work with a chest as tight as a ducks arse. Bits of negative newsfakes were wafing around in the small space between me and the window and the tiny chinese bell that someone gave me who later died a death and I went to his funeral: aferwards, hearing the bell always made me sad so I hid it under the dashboard. Thoughts of how the oil would be running out and wed all have to stay home and make love all day or walk to work or stuf like that
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provided much-wanted distraction for a moment. Suddenly Im back on the self-pity rails: there is a train waiting for me any time of day, with plush pillows and exquisite service: Would you care for another cold cup of tea with a poisoned biscuit on the side, Sire? Yes, please, and make it extra strong. More needling comments on your wrinkled wee-little willy-winky, Sire? No, thank you, I am slashed enough already. on and on the carriages roll on their journey towards my personal Shangri-La.

Later, we watch cuban women rolling cigars on their naked thighs. We wade through the pastiche of our own time: do you remember when we used to do this, and that? Yes I do, no I dont. Or: I cant be bothered to think about the past, I want to look ahead. What do you see there? I see me and I see you and others. My vision is blurred. Someone hands me glasses. They dont help. I see Asian women enjoying themselves with Asian men, piercing and pierced with pleasure. I see fathers and mothers and children holding hands and walking out of creation into a curtain of the dustiest dust. The investment of dirty nappies bears heavy fruit. I see prayer, I see pain. Somewhere, someone crunches credit under their boot. Financial institutions crumble while
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Im still struggling with defnitions. Where was Nietzsche when I needed him? How exactly did I become who I am?
My hands were made of iron: I built a Faraday cage to shield my manhood from curious looks. Thus armed, I lef work and went for a walk in the park that always makes me peevish, but more so when Im horny and upset. I watched the people pass through their lives and I wondered how they might feel on the inside: furry or feverish or simply red-hot. I sat down on a bench to read, munching carrots and sandwich prepared by her for me, lovingly I had to give it to her. The sun melted my resolve to remain a grump. Teenagers hopped along, listlessly. No radiowaves ravished my soul. Calm and collected I got back to work, lead my team astray and postponed deadlines like an expert undertaker.

You need to fold your clothes, she says. I take her by the word and swirl her around, my sweet chariot wife, she bakes compliments better than bread. We end up in bed, on the unfolded clothes. Many of my journeys ended here, tis a pleasant place of childlike wonder, a place to go yonder. It takes a lot longer to understand your body than it takes to learn maths. Once you fgured
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it out, what it wants and when and from whom, you can move on to fguring out relationships. Chances are, you already passed through a few by the time good hard knowledge rolls around like cash on a day at the track.

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