Wake Up
Fuck. How’s that always the first thought that runs through my mind in the morning? Yet it just so happens to be the last thing I could possibly want here? Huh. Ironic. There’s something about today. What is it? she’s still sleeping. Good. She’ll be awake soon enough. Christ knows She’ll remind me, whatever it is. She’s good like that. By then I’ll have gotten our angel to school. Wait... it’s Sunday. No school. Pancakes though. That’s something she’s not involved in. That’s just between me and B. Huh... could make a cute little rhyme.
Then we’ll have coffee, She’ll tell me the thing I’ve forgotten and then we’ll both slip off to our separate work spaces. Work... so much fucking work. Her studio is where she doesn’t have to deal with the fact that I’m busy. That’s me. Busy.
We create because we’re creators. She’s brilliant; brilliant and distracted, but not from her work, but rather by it. I’m not complaining. So am I. She spends her days waging unrecognised wars and social media protests about politics and feminism. It’s good. It seeps into her work. And her work is powerful. She’s powerful... in a way that she uses. A role model, but also deeply hated by some. I guess I’m half the reason for that. I’m blind sometimes, but I’m not stupid. I know how the two of us got here. I’ve always loved powerful women. And she rides that wave. Truth is - she gets all the perks of who... what I am and she only has to deal with a little hate from people she doesn’t even know for being with me. Shit, I’m so goddamn jealous. She doesn’t know how fucking easy she has it.
Fuck I hate this brand of toothpaste. Makes my gums bleed. Look at me. When the fuck did this happen? Have I really been avoiding my reflection for so long? I barely recognize this person. How did I jump from 24 to... Oh God... That’s what today is. I’m 40. Jesus.
Guess that means we’re celebrating. My office will see a little less of me today and my angel will have some sort of surprise for me. She’s been looking forward to this for days. What a weird kid. Excited for the day that brings her father one year closer to his imminent demise. Birthdays are different for kids. It IS a celebration... a success and a relief for us who have seen them grow another year. Adults don’t grow. We deteriorate. I’m deteriorating. Where the fuck did my hairline go? I used to have thick Italian hair. The kind you wanna take a fist full of and yank. What the fuck is this shit?
Fantastic... the first of a million texts to pollute my inbox today. My facebook and Instagram are gonna explode. Who’s this? I guess I must at the very least check the first one right?
Oh it’s you, Little shit...
“Happy nearer-to-death-day, Old man.”
Great... of course, my prayer that he wouldn’t notice fell upon deaf ears.
- “Why are you awake?”
“I’m not, but I knew you would be.”
- “Go back to sleep. You’re no good this time of the morning.”
He’s not. Nothing can match his mood when he hasn’t gotten enough sleep.
“Ain’t that the truth. Night. XO”
Night? It’s 07:00 am. Fuckin’ weirdo.
- “For you. It's 5am in Jersey. Night night. xoxo”
Little shit.
His hair’s thinning too. Doubt he cares. Doesn’t take away from that face, but I can’t say I didn’t notice... Which means he’s noticed mine. He notices everything; every last goddamn detail.
Fuck. When did I get so old? I look like a housewife who’s let herself go. Great look for a guy in his 40s huh? Maybe I should dye my hair again... would that look... desperate? Am I old enough now for it to be cliché? I’ve never been afraid of ageing. But then again I didn’t ever think I would be in this situation at this age and you know what? There’s a slight sting that comes with knowing who you used to be.
God... who’s this now?
“Stop ASSessing your face. XO”
Fucker.
“Stop texting me. Sleep. You may look it but you’re not a kid anymore either.”
“Don’t tell me what to do. Try and have some fun okay? But not too much. Old men... heart attacks.”
“Oh look who’s telling who what to do now. Don’t worry. A real Cell-abration (-T + S) will be underway I’m sure.”
Ooh, look at me being all clever and sassy this time of the morning. Bet he can’t beat that right now... not while he’s still half unconscious.
“Under-Way, huh? Nice.”
How the fuck does his brain do that? I practically fell into that one. Wait... that was cheeky and flirty, wasn’t it? He doesn’t do that often. Not when he’s at home.
“Jealous?”
“Nostalgic.”
“You mean lethargic. Go to sleep. xoxo”
“Fine. XO”
Two years. Two fucking years and I look like this. Is this what a life without ghostly hands does to me? I mean... it’s not like he doesn’t know what I look like now. He’s always on social media, but fuck knows I haven’t posted a pic of myself in... Shit... I guess I have been aware of what I Iook like. But that doesn’t mean pics of me haven’t surfaced and there’re always those goddamn events I have to show up at. Feels like the world is constantly trying to see what I look like.
But he did see me last year. Did I look at all better then? I don’t know. I wasn’t prepared. It’s not like I was expecting the things he said - or that he would even say them at all - or that he’d ask to say it to my face. I can’t believe how quickly I got on that plane. Desperate much? Maybe I needed to see first-hand if he would still look at me the same... or if the ghost had really moved on and let go of me the way I let go of myself. I should’a guessed though. He’s always liked worn out things. Old habits huh?
I don’t know what would’a hurt more. Seeing him and that he was finally over our years of back and forth or the fact that he still looked at me like I’m a puppy dog. Ha! I’m no fucking puppy dog. I’m a mangy cat. He still calls me ‘Babe’ and he wants to make me purr. God knows he can. Fuck. I shouldn’t be touching myself right now. I should be getting this morning started. Idiot texting me when I’m at my weakest. WHY are we doing this again?
Next month will bring him across the country to me and then what? He’s been planning this for months. He plans everything to the very last line. How many times have I nearly slipped up? And I’m so sloppy with the damage control. Not him. He always had a way. I can’t think when things don’t go according to my plan. I spaz out and make decisions out of desperation. And the only time he DOESN’T make emotional decisions is when it comes to protecting us. But when he wants to hurt me... god the things he’s capable of after I’ve made another desperate decision and fucked it all up. I used to be better at this. Wasn’t I? I can’t remember how we made it this far, despite all our little accidents.
Shit... the accident. How many fucking songs have I written about accidents? How many fucking songs have I written about him dead? Neither one of us could’ve planned that... not even with all his meticulous skills. Having to act diplomatically when my heart was ripping out my chest. Having to stay away from the hospital. I swear I marched right into my office to book a ticket, but... yeah... that would’a caused another accident, wouldn’t it? So what did I do? Spent every fucking waking hour painting our walls to match the only place the two of us can call home. The only place they’ve ever left us alone to just be out in the open.
There are far more eyes on me than on him. That’s how he gets away with saying things. Things that make my rib cage close thinking that ‘THIS IS IT’... ‘this time they’ll work it out’ and there’ll be no more acceptable lies to tell. Every day I expect that call “Dude, the cat is OUT the bag”... I start to prepare for the storm - For her eyes to turn cold on me as the accusations of betrayal and lies start. For the rush for hashtags and comments... that bullshit name they gave us years ago. The stalking. But they never come. He has an answer for every question they can think of. And they never really ask him the right ones anyway. I guess they’re a little afraid of just how easily he can make them look like idiots for ever asking.
But besides the fact that he blames me and himself, he blames them too... for our failure. The way they watch us, the things they say. But at the same time I think he hates them for not figuring it out already... with all the breadcrumbs he leaves scattered everywhere... he hates them for not picking them up. For not seeing through our lies and exposing us... taking the control out of our hands so we can just be... I don’t know... together?... Without the burden of one of us having to make the first move of confession.
I don’t know why I’m agreeing to this. I know what will happen. I’ll go out to meet him... of course, I will. He didn’t plan all this for... Hhmm... Nothing... I amuse myself sometimes. But I’ll go. And we’ll melt. He’ll look at me... I’ll touch him... He’ll kiss me and we’ll spend hours investigating the things about each other’s bodies that we missed and the things that are different now. And then we’ll fuck. And it’ll be hot and sweaty and painful. God that reminds me... fuck I didn’t even consider that. I know I’m not the last he had. He’s insatiable when he’s not suppressing it. Fuck we were such animals. He knows I haven’t been behaving myself either. I’m a mess but I like what I like. But then why do we always end up here? In a panting, screaming mess together? And god knows we make a mess of each other - Of our bodies and of our lives. And it will be... “fuck”... it’ll be so fucking good. Fuck... this feels so good.
Where was I? Shit yeah.
We’ll make promises to try again. And it may even work for a while. And we’ll be giddy like school kids and plan trips around each other - maybe he’ll even move back to LA for a while or I’ll get another place in New York. And then sooner or later we’ll hate each other again. The sneaking, the lies, our families, wives, work... our lives. Who he is... who I am. I’ll go back to my office and do anything but music. And he’ll write another hate album. Maybe he’ll go for Black Metal this time. Always the extreme when he wants to show me how fucking angry he is. And maybe I can swoop in again and make it right and he won’t release it just yet. But it won’t last and then I’ll see it everywhere. And the kids will love it cause it’s him and brilliant and shows his diversity and because it’ll be scary and hot. ‘Oh my god did you hear him moan on track 3? Like 2:15 minutes in... his voice is my life.’ Fucking teenagers. No... His moans and screams are MY life. And it sounds pretty and sexy but it’s fuelled with hate. And he’ll put his secret little name for me on the album as always, to taunt me with it - So that only I know that this shit is about me. That it’s always been about me. Then he’ll shun me for another two years and then I’ll be another two years older and we’ll start to miss the hatred again.
It scares the shit outta me sometimes. Not only the self-loathing I know us to be capable of, despite our sunny dispositions. But the level at which we loathe each other. I know I’m a bit of a control freak, and he’s capable of making me lose all control and while that scares me... it’s when he loves me the most. And hates me the most. He can’t feel one without the other. And when he hates, he hates with his blood. It’s sexual. “Fuck”...
The destruction he’s capable of is terrifying. The love he’s capable of is terrifying. And intoxicating. He’ll destroy me. And what makes it so much better is how you’ll never say it looking at him. He’s so good at hiding in plain sight, whereas I hide behind layer on layer of colour and illusion. He’s a master. And to watch him is... “Fuck”...
Or maybe we’ll just cry. Maybe I’ll hit him. And maybe he’ll put his hands around my throat. And we’ll fuck some more cause fuck... it feels better than crying. Or maybe we’ll kill each other this time. God, I hope we kill each other. And they’ll find us naked and tangled up in our own shame and over a decade’s worth of regret and pain fuelled by a love and lust without answers or solution. And then there will be no more place to hide. Our families will be a wreck. But God I hope we finally fucking kill each other this time. “Shit.” Fuck, fuck fuck.
Oh god... she’s awake. I’m a fucking mess. Shit. Shit. If I let her in here now, she’ll smell it on me. You can’t mistake that smell, or the way I’m sweating and well... shit... my sweater. IDIOT.
“Ahhh, I’m just jumping in the shower, babe.”
Fuck my birthday. My whole routine is outta sync now. Fuck that little spook and his birthday texts. But damn this water feels good. If I knew I’d be washing away evidence this morning I would’a saved it for in here and then my PJs wouldn’t fucking reek of me. I’m gonna have to sneak it into the laundry or wash it myself. I’ll just say I spilled coffee or something. She won’t ask questions. She’s used to me spilling things. I’m a slob at best. Wait... I should just bring it in here with me.
Jesus. Ha! That’s ahh... I almost don’t wanna clean this off. Fucking frame it. Ooooorrrrr not. Shit.. . Been in here too long. No doubt she has our little monster up already. Fuck... fuck my birthday.
