The smirk came on slowly, dawning imperceptibly over her chameleon features. A laugh was soon to follow, it’s cold edges snagging on my ears. “You’ve lost it haven’t you?”

“I had it here a second ago.”

“But it’s gone now hasn’t it?”

Turning, denying, she slides away. The quickening pulse slamming my head lunges at her receding form.

When she had found me I was grateful for the condescending pity of her body. Dutifully I had laid my soul bare to the humiliation of examination and cross, terrified shards of my Id scampering for the shadows. She had picked and peeled revealing the shivering wreck of my post neurotic dreams of solidity, drenching the cadaverous psyche in quicksilver dreams. “You’ve no historical perspective!” the barb digging in my youthful ear. “You’re a reactionary!” I would gladly contort this reaction if she could stop digging; stop the painful dissection of the pitiful shit I’ve become.

She isn’t home. Quarter past eleven and she isn’t home. I can see her though: writhing, entangled, loosing the spirit that was once mine to share. Back arching convex, shudders of cold sweating ecstasy silhouetted against the minds eye. Thoughts compel, thoughts deny. A solipsistic nightmare forces itself upon my own existential crisis. ‘She is repulsed by you’, ‘You repulse yourself’, ‘she’s cheating on you’, ‘you’re not good enough for her’.

There was time for discovery. At genesis I amazed her with feats of endurance, mental gymnastics, effortless praise. I had gained her geisha’s contract and displayed it with pride. But infatuation recedes as oxytocin abates. I was for greater things she had inspired. For the world was ripe for her revolution she’d said.

“Know the word, say the word and the word is revolution”

To Be Continued...

© James Cross