I broke your heart you said. I’ve known a lot of broken hearts and some ended worse than others. A broken heart is a true thing. And it’s not just us. Animals die of broken hearts. Even frogs have personalities. My friend has two tree frogs and one is a real standoffish little bastard.
But to die of a broken heart seems such a sad affair. Like my mate, who had a bad night, and once he’d packed his skis, The Notebook for God’s sake, and a photo album of him looking good in flares for someone with red hair; tied a rope to the door handle of his bedroom. He had an ensuite with an exposed brick wall, and strung himself up like you see them do in the abattoirs to those cows with the big eyes, confused looks; yawing and fighting and struggling to get up and eat that grass. Only lying down when the desert sun slips under the edge and the moon says it’s okay.
First appeared in Windmills 2012
But you still go to his little cottage in the country and eat his scrambled eggs, gently folded, special recipe made with a squeeze of fresh orange juice. And you do suffer his hard little body, receding hairline and Neil Diamond , seducing a poor girl from the country with her vowels drenched in cow piss and rotting cider apples.
He has a wall-sized gilt mirror next to the bed and his sheets are Harrods white. When he’s in the bathroom you sit up, side on, poke out fashionable little breasts, swoosh hair down your back till it reaches your arse and look at yourself, neck arched, like you’ve seen in pictures of a pre-Raphaelite goddess and later, bad porn. Next time he brings a bottle of Scotch. You put it on a dressing table where the afternoon sun turns it into liquid gold.
‘I’ve been up north to get something sorted,’ you say.
‘Why didn’t you tell me. I could have had it fixed it for you closer to home,’
He’s taking out his cheque book and Parker pen, silver. And how many other girls have looked in that mirror, something worming its way right in.
He said he’d call.
First published online in Dogzplot (US) 2012