THE VERY THOUGHT OF YOU.

Kitty Shrimpcell sat stuffing chocolates into her mouth; stared out at the window with the sound of Leonard Cohen playing from the record player in the corner. She watched Mrs Gentry leave to go to the shops. The old hag, she mused, turning the morsel of chocolate around in her mouth. She stared as the broad backside waddled off along the street; sniggered as the morsel disappeared down her throat. She raised her eyes to the grey sky; sighed. Let her fingers hover over the box of chocolates like a predator waiting to choose its prey. Two fingers dived onto the unsuspecting prey; removed a soft orange. Placed into her mouth; licked her fingers like a close lover. She turned her eyes to the room; gazed at the unmade bed, at where Matt had last laid his greasy head. Her eyes moved over the crumpled sheets; settled on a small red stain; shook her head; sighed deeply. She wanted to leave the room now; wanted to leave; go elsewhere somewhere Matt had never been. At least not with her. Where to go? she mused, twirling the chocolate mess about her mouth. Decisions where not her strong point. She seldom made decisions; she let thing just happen to her; just floated along like a leaf on the stream of life. She turned her gaze back to the street. Matt had that way with him, that crazy laugh, that look of coolness. She wanted to forget him; to put him from her mind like a bad smell. But just when she had lost the image of him, it would creep back into her mind like some damned cat finding its way home after a long haul away. She watched the street as Marge Finwine passed by the front gate with her fuzzy hair hanging from her shoulders like some petrified cat; her blue coat wrapped about her figure like an Eskimo from a child’s comic book. She allowed her fingers to move over the chocolate box again; then walk over them until one particular chocolate tempted her; she lifted it up into her mouth; licked the fingers greedily. She closed her eyes. Sighed. Dribbled. Moved her tongue over her lips catching the drops of dribble like a lizard. It was depressing sight this street, she thought, pressing her nose against the pane of glass leaving a smudge mark. She opened her eyes; looked back into the room; down at her grey dress with its faded flowers; at her bare feet; at her stumpy toes like piglets going to no market. She stood up from the chair; walked to the bed; brushed her hand over the sheet; then raised it to her nose; sniffed. Matt. The stink of Matt, the smell of him, even though he was not here, she muttered inaudibly. She sat on the bed; pushed her hands into her lap; sighed deeply. There’d be another, no doubt, she said inwardly, be another to replace Matt and his crazy ways; his damned eyes; his cool manner. If she’d not taken the pill, she’d have risked getting herself stuffed with his sprog and that would have been dammed depressing, she mused, staring at the Mogdigliani print above the fireplace that she’d bought from some charity shop in the town. She found the print comforting; loved the woman depicted as if she were a sister of suffering. She lay back on the bed, her head resting on the pillow; stared at the ceiling. The Cohen record had ended; the room was filled now with an uneasy silence. She spotted a dull patch on the ceiling as if water had at sometime dripped through. If ceilings could speak they’d have tale to tell, she mused, letting a small smile form on her lips. Then she thought of Matt again; thought of his eyes, his crazy ways; his lovemaking. Suddenly wrapped her arms about her body; squeezed herself tightly; closed her eyes; rocked herself side to side in a mock play of lovemaking until the bedsprings rattled in protest. She paused. Sighed. Opening her eyes, she sat up; moved to the side of the bed; dangled her legs and bare feet as if they were bathing in a stream instead of the dingy air of the bed sit. The chocolates looked tempting; the sky brightened; she’d go for a walk down by the seafront; maybe go for a paddle; maybe drown her damned self, she thought suddenly, pushing herself from the bed; stomping over to the box of chocolates; stuffing two into her mouth greedily like a child sneaking them quickly before the mother returned. She stopped mid chew; remembered the time her mother’d spank her once for doing just that. She continued chewing, but it seemed odd now; like something dirty had entered her mouth; something she ought not to have taken; something that made her now want to puke. She spat out the remains into her hand and looked at the brown gooey mess. Where’d that memory come from? she asked herself silently, walking to the sink; washing her hands like a priest during mass. She wanted Matt to come back; wanted his eyes and crazy ways; his greasy hair and lovemaking. She walked to the small table by the window; picked up the box of chocolates; threw them into the waste bin under the sink. She put on Matt’s old socks, her brown shoes and an old red coat and went to the door. She looked around the room; paused to gaze at the Mogdigliani woman, then pulled the door closed with a stiff thud and descended the stairs to the street.