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The Chemistry Between Us
Jul. 2nd, 2006 10:38 pmKeys to the new flat are in our hands. Piles of letters when we opened the door. A pen and the same message scribbled on most of them: "Please return to sender. No longer lives here." Open windows to get rid of the musty smell, plastic bags to remove bits of previous occupiers (cotton buds, soaps, scummy shower curtain), and that classic movie moment when the couple (i.e. us) hug each other in the living room and contemplate their new home.
Sun-starched London over the weekend. Victoria park with my gay one, the towels, gasoline air, sunblock lotion, dog acts in the bushes, drag acts on bicycles. Cans of beer chilled by a bloated fridge, the beautiful ones walking up and down the canal, loved up & alcohol-stoned in a humid town. Psycho for late night movies, bare chested mornings, videogames, bowl of mueslie, thick strawberries with bright red heads. In the 90s going nowhere, in the 00s kicking the laziness around the apartment.
Sunday Tube ride to Greenwich because goths also run for charities and raise money for worthy causes. Burgers, beer, charcoal, Kevin lost in Greenwich park, the grass in Kirsten and Nick's backyard (oh so close to the kitties litter) and two BBQs -- one for the vegetarians, one for the carnivorous. Goths in polca dot dresses, blue t-shirts, sandals, pink faces, baby-carrying tummies and a table covered with BBQ sauce, baps, steaks, electric yellow cheese and spent booze. Goths who listen to early 90s indie; Goths (a.k.a. Suzi) who scream at the top of their lungs when the conversation on breast milk goes too far; Goths who seem less gothic the more times they hang out with me (it's my gay virus seeping into their veins and giving them an air of debauched normality); Goths who feed Kevin and I then tell us our train will arrive in 3 minutes, that we can't make it, but we hug and shake hands and say that we can do it, and we run run run run run climb the station's stairs pant pant run run and enter the train heading home.
Maybe we are kids that have grown; maybe we are kids that have had a wonderful weekend and don't want to fall asleep.
Sun-starched London over the weekend. Victoria park with my gay one, the towels, gasoline air, sunblock lotion, dog acts in the bushes, drag acts on bicycles. Cans of beer chilled by a bloated fridge, the beautiful ones walking up and down the canal, loved up & alcohol-stoned in a humid town. Psycho for late night movies, bare chested mornings, videogames, bowl of mueslie, thick strawberries with bright red heads. In the 90s going nowhere, in the 00s kicking the laziness around the apartment.
Sunday Tube ride to Greenwich because goths also run for charities and raise money for worthy causes. Burgers, beer, charcoal, Kevin lost in Greenwich park, the grass in Kirsten and Nick's backyard (oh so close to the kitties litter) and two BBQs -- one for the vegetarians, one for the carnivorous. Goths in polca dot dresses, blue t-shirts, sandals, pink faces, baby-carrying tummies and a table covered with BBQ sauce, baps, steaks, electric yellow cheese and spent booze. Goths who listen to early 90s indie; Goths (a.k.a. Suzi) who scream at the top of their lungs when the conversation on breast milk goes too far; Goths who seem less gothic the more times they hang out with me (it's my gay virus seeping into their veins and giving them an air of debauched normality); Goths who feed Kevin and I then tell us our train will arrive in 3 minutes, that we can't make it, but we hug and shake hands and say that we can do it, and we run run run run run climb the station's stairs pant pant run run and enter the train heading home.
Maybe we are kids that have grown; maybe we are kids that have had a wonderful weekend and don't want to fall asleep.
