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Nothing's Changed.

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Nothing's Changed When you phoned last night I was clipping my nails. I stood at the window of my bedroom; the phone cradled between my chin and shoulder, and clipped my nails as I listened to your voice. It had, after all, been some time since I heard it and I was, as ever, mesmerised. "I'm coming to town on Friday. I thought we could meet for a drink or something," you said, as if we were and always had been quiet, calm friends. "Sure. Sounds good." I watched the tiny clippings, brittle slivers of dead cells, fall to the floor. We arranged a meeting and you hung up. ...read more.


There was a scar beneath my ring, whitened by time. The silver mood ring, which flashes golden in the sun, and burns red whenever you are near. Do you remember the night you gave it to me? The first time you whispered in my ear that you loved me, and the expression on your face when I said it back? These hands, they had held starfish and crabs, caught by my brother and father on the long summers days spent at the beach down in Sussex where my grandmother lived by the sea. They had swung vodka bottles by the neck, held guns, knives and other hands. They had held your hand. ...read more.


"How's things?" I ask, avoiding your searching eyes. "Really good, really very good. It's all worked out better than I hoped." And as you tell me about your new work, about your mother who, is engaged to a used car sales man called Steve, and brother who's just gone off to university, about the prospects for your success, I console myself with the thought of your damaged, blind hands, which will always reveal you for what you are. I listen and I drink and I order more drink. Still I find it hard to look you in the face. I pull a cigarette from your pack and you lean forward and light it for me. Your hands wrap around mine, steadying the tremble, and I see for the first time what you are, the same as ever, nothing's changed! ...read more.

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