I wake up from a ray of sun sizzling a sliver of my cheek and right eyelid. For the first time in weeks I feel well rested. Perhaps because I helplessly fell asleep in the taxi on our way home from that photography studio turned club in Shadwell last night.
For hours I had struggled to keep the buzz up, to socialise among hundreds of Londoners dressed up as Dia de los Muertos, Mario Brothers and various creepy characters. Finally I was in this city again, so I couldn’t just go home and sleep and miss out on all the things I miss so intensely back in Stockholm. Once in the taxi though, I was beyond rescue and instantly fell into hard slumber, only waking from you gently shaking me with a laugh.
Now it’s you who’s sleeping. I’m lying here pretending we don’t exist outside this room as it all would be so much more simple then. I try not to wake you up even though I really want to. I watch the sun sweep over the worn concrete wall, over your well tailored jackets, a hat I’ve only seen you wear once and over the wooden beams we climb over to get into your bed. I wonder how the fuck it feels when you wake up here alone.
When I left in August and cried and you cried, my heart didn’t survive anymore but had never made me so aware of its existence. Our standard joke in midst of the misery then was that at least now, you will get to sleep in because I won’t be there to wake you up.
But that’s then, when I’m in a different city, a different country even, and it feels like an elastic band stretched out to the max is pulling my heart back to London. Where I used to live with you, but I don’t anymore. If I would just forget and let go for a split second my heart would catapult straight back here. But it’d get ripped away from the rest of me and I’d return to being a shell.
You can sleep when I’m gone, not now. So I wake you up by kissing you slightly too violently, and telling you exactly that sad joke of ours. You smile a sleepy smile and say you don’t even mind.
Once we’re awake I never want to leave the bed but after a while you get impatient and we get up. I put on my shortest skirt because I know you like it and I feel like a queen in it. Also it’s the only garment I packed which is suitable for the 25degrees outside.The rest of my bag is made up by faux fur, artsy turtlenecks and leather dresses. Gorgeous clothing but I wish all November days would feel like summer and I’d throw them out in a second.
– OMG Daniel, we have to climb up on your roof! I shout out of nowhere, which I tend to do when something brilliant suddenly hits me.
– What – now? What about brunch? I’m starving! you reply, borderline hangry (hunger + anger you know).
– Well, I’m going up on your roof, you can stay here. (me behaving like a teenager)
And with a skirt too short and a window too small I climb out with everything apart from grace, looking more like a GIRLS episode then an American Apparel ad. Once up though London pierces my soul probably eleven times. This city! I shove my head down the window and shout down to you:
– YOU HAVE TO SEE THIS IT’S SO PRETTY I MIGHT DIE.
I know you think I’m completely mental but hilarious (which I am more than happy to live with) and you cave in and climb up to me.
We hang out on the roof tiles, and I want to scream because I don’t feel an ounce of sadness. Up there with the bus 55 thundering past us below it feels like that time after just a few dates when we climbed out your window onto the roof of Spitalfield’s market with breakfast and steaming coffees. Your music blasting out of the speakers and my being so impressed about the fact that you who adore music more than anything still had a favourite song. Sun showers passed over us and fucking hell I was dizzy from being around you.
We laugh at that now because how weird isn’t it that there was a time when we were strangers still.
The sun is burning away all the autumn gloom in our skin and veins so that we can pretend it’s spring approaching and not a deadly winter. The woman on the fourth floor in the neighbouring house smiles and waves at us with her cigarette. She seems to sit in her window smoking in her maroon coloured kimono every single time I look. She must be a writer of some kind or maybe she’s just a freelancing(unemployed possibly post grad) student with a sassy wardrobe like the rest of London. At least she’s not depressed, yet. Something that is sure in this life is that depressed people don’t wave, so good for her.
– Should we head down? I ask.
– Yeah, I’m fucking dying, let’s go for brunch.
I love you being a drama queen, just like me.