Diedre and Scooter (and fending off guilt)

This week has been tinged with red wine. Red wine and tea, in the in between moments. And my minds feel much like a sponge that’s mopped up too much of the wrong things. And along with excess there have been those slices of life: a dominatrix, two wounded birds, thoughts on mourning, reflections on shopping trolleys. There were stories there, are stories there, but somehow pre-Christmas excess and pre-birthday celebrations saturated all of the words and they turned to mush.

So I’ve sat this week with the guilt of not processing these things. Cursed my brain for firing off sparks without any flame. Life seemed too big to put into words. So instead, to keep my promise-to-self to post regularly, here is a more fictional slice of life. Something to fend off guilt until the dominatrixes, birds and trolleys with wheels that work, until mourning and parallels to knitting all speak a little more clearly.

Until then meet:
Diedre and Scooter (a snippet) ...

Diedre lay on the floor of the laundromat.

Scooter sat close to the dryer watching it turn round rhymically. His face looked goofy.  Dumb. And he watched fascinated by the rotation of his old underpants and worn cotton Tee’s. His head playing out a circular kind of nod as his eyes followed each rotation.

Diedre stared up at the ceiling, at the lifting paint. She couldn’t move in this heat and the floor felt cool. 

Scooter stood, began jumping up, reaching above his head to grab at the peeling paint. Diedre watched his jeans fall lower each time his feet hit the ground.

She always thought he had a dinky arse.  Nonexistent.  Dinky—it was the perfect word. She though of the old bung bicycle in the shed with busted springs that pressed up against the cracked lining of the seat.  That was Scooter’s arse.  Naked he looked a bit like a sick horse, all iliac crest and paper-thin lilly-white skin coating the bone. And Diedre though of her own fleshy bits, rounded, offering more than Scooter ever could.

(image: Anthony Giocolea)