-18. The Gloaming
For the ones that sparkle.
I didn’t know then that was the day my life would truly begin.
Woke with a start. What did I do? I had the fear. And the guilt. Something dreadful had happened. The brain hadn’t caught up yet, but my soul knew trouble had occurred.
Did I even want to remember? Reached for the vodka on the bedside table with a tragic decisiveness. Admitted I had to surrender to a narrative larger than myself—Twilight. I’d watched it when I got home from the Obsidian Room.
The first mouthful was not pleasant, it was fucking great. A medicinal slap in the face with a hug for pudding. When you are committed to heartbreak, you have to do it properly. Otherwise, it’s just a man drinking before breakfast.
Still in the night before’s clothes, I reached for my phone. Got a whiff of my pits as I did. Fucking Jesus Christ. Told myself I would shower later. (I didn’t). 27 messages. First one was something angry from Simon. What a bellend. Swiped them all away with one eye closed.
Asked Spotify to play some music. It started a list called Deep Focus, but the first “song” was a man whispering his feelings about a river, and fuck that bollocks. So I lay in silence, which was just as loud and more annoying. My phone was in my eyeline, begging me to look at it. I threw it against the wall and rolled over. Dignified.
Didn’t know what to do. Nothing I did felt correct. Thought about going out. But the neighbour’s dog was barking in a way that felt personal. Blah, blah, blah. We’ve done the dog thing.
I looked up at the skylight. Have I mentioned that before? Yeah, I’ve got a skylight. The rain was lashing down. Not the pathetic nonsense that wets pavements apologetically, but a world-wobbler of a downpour. I don’t really like the rain. Any cold, wet thing, I don’t really like.
My choice was easy: Lie there forever, vegetative. October, November, December, January. But eventually my back started hurting, so I went to stare out the window. Cars travelled by at a mournful pace, and a woman holding an umbrella made me think of Jadyn holding an umbrella.
Get a grip, Jolon. Maybe a coffee will help? Made it to the kitchen and put the kettle on. Then, in a moment of clarity, went back to grab my vodka and phone. Time to look at the messages. They were all from fucking Simon. The first one said, “You don’t belong in my world,” so I deleted the rest without reading. Prick.
Scrolled to my chat with Jadyn. Stared without tapping, reread the last few weeks of texts. And again. Considered writing “hey”, then heroically closed WhatsApp and put the phone down.
Bottle in hand, I went to practise my distraught face in the window. I found something handsome and tragic enough. “Come on, Team Jolon,” I said to the vodka microphone. “Let’s see what rock bottom wants from us today.”
Afternoon turned into who gives a twat? The bottle started talking to me around the gloaming. It had opinions, and I listened. I thought about Jadyn. “You don’t… Want me?”
Cracked open another bottle and went back to bed to really wallow in it. Tried not to think about the Romans. Then, just as I was considering death, a vibration. She was calling. Me! Everything was tingling and sparkly. Even my cock, which hadn’t so much as managed to squeeze out a piss all day.
I let it ring once, because that’s what champions do, and I answered in a tone that suggested I was neither surprised nor fucking hammered.
“Alright,” I slurred.
Her breath, that hum I could conduct my life to. Then, the words I’ve mulled over a thousand times since: “Jolon. I want to see you.”
There it was. The lion fell in love with the lamb. “Of course,” I said, in a register I’m sure sounded casual. “Anytime. Anywhere. What are you doing tomorrow?”
We arranged a plan. We talked. And when the line went quiet, the silence was not empty. It was crowded with a thousand interpretations, each of which had me as the main character.
I drank what was left in the bottle as I ruminated. I was certain now that no measure of time with her would be long enough, but we’d start with forever. Then I fell asleep to dreams of baseball in the snow.
previous: 66. Hello Again