I am here to try and give us all a chance to get out of this mess as easy as possible, without too much trouble, and with a shred of dignity. So I take a long, good, hard look at Tania first, as she’s sitting next to me on the couch, suckling the bong so hard, the insides of her cheeks touch each other.
She’s too thin. Now, I like my women slender, but when the light is right, you can read the Daily Mail through her. There’s only one kind of hunger her body concentrates on, and she can quench it with smoke, with these little white lines spread out before her on a blind mirror like an indifferent I Ging oracle, and the flask of cheap vodka she pours into her vanilla milk.
Her hair’s straggly, and the colour has gone out. It probably leaves her head at night and joins the other strays in the streets.
Does it help? Does it fuck.
Her tits are too small, her nose is too long, the ass too near to her popliteal fossa. Carrying a conversation is heavy lifting for her.
None of that helps either.
I love her, and I want her back, and that’s why I’m sitting here. Again. Three hundred fifty quid poorer and with the self-confidence of a sand puppy on a raft
Her eyes are closed and her lids flutter a bit as she swallows the smoke.
She’s a rather bad fuck, too. Not that I’m an expert. We did it twice in eight months, and the second time I was too strung out on diazepam to get the machine working. So I should say she’s rather bad at coming up with original excuses for not wanting to fuck me.
Tania exhales a tiny blue cloud, turns around and eyes a hole in the air to my left that’s more interesting than me.
“It’s not like you love Alex, is it?” I have asked this question over and over again. Should have printed it on a tee shirt by now.
“Maybe not, Paul. But I’m with him for ten years. And it’s his flat. He pays the rent. While you can hardly afford the rat hole you live in. And living there with you on Ramen and a Happy Meal on Sundays is about as appealing as having my tits sewed on my ass.” She lights up a cigarette, takes a drag, coughs. “And, like I said about a hundred fucking times, I don’t love you either.”
“That’s not what you said when…”
She cuts me short. I hate that, but I’m not here to start trouble. Not when it can be avoided.
“Don’t start. I said I liked you. Really liked you. At first. When I thought you were a nice guy, with no habit to feed, and maybe could, oh I don’t know … provide some stability. Help me getting sorted.”
“I tried to do that, Tania. I still can. It’s not like you’ve given me a lot of chances to prove it. It’s always been Alex this, Alex that, Alex will be home soon, oh, I don’t like to do it in car, we can’t kiss here, Alex’ mates hang around this place.”
“Jesus.” She started to refill the bong, hands trembling with either greed or annoyance. I hope it’s the drugs. “I shouldn’t have agreed to this. I knew it was going to be the same old shit again.”
“I just want to understand why you don’t want to give us a chance. I just…”
“Are you really that daft, Paul? You are worse than the drugs. They suck the life out of me, too, but at least I get something back. You’re just a vampire. An emotional parasite.”
She suddenly knows some big words. It’s not the kind of talk I want to have with her, but, on a strictly verbal level, she sure has improved.
“That’s bullshit. For God’s sake, I don’t even know what you are talking about. Look at you. I mean, don’t get me wrong, but you’re not exactly the big catch. You’re not cheerleader material. You’re an addict, you’re unstable and I sure have met smarter lasses. But I love you. Does that mean nothing? I don’t expect gratitude, but I fucking deserve a chance.”
Now she looks at me. It’s not the look I hoped to get today, but, hell, yes – I’ve finally won over the hole in the air.
“You bastard. You god-damned fucking piece of shit. You deserve? I can’t believe it. Every minute I spent with you drained the life out of me, you needy wee cocksucker. Twenty, thirty text messages a day about how you can’t live without me. Phone calls all through the night, with you crying like a baby who needs his tit. Suicide threats.”
“Now, wait a minute. Suicide threats? That’s…“
“That’s what? – ‘Ooooh, I’m bleeding, Tania. I think I did something stupid, Tania.’ And I drove up, at four in the morning, and you were laying in your beer puke with some driblets on your wrist. Or when you took five pills to treat high blood pressure? – ‘It’s your fault, Tania. I cannot live without you, Tania.’ These pathetic cries for my attention, and then you dare and blame me? It’s my fault you’ve got the emotional stability of a retarded three year old?”
It’s a pretty crap imitation of me. I sure don’t sound like a hamster on a rack, even when I am upset. And it isn’t going the way I hoped. I grab the soft bag I bought last night in case it would turn out this way and hold onto it like a talisman. If I grab it hard enough, rub it, maybe I don’t have to use it.
“Look, Tania.” I speak quietly, calm. Showing her I can be reasonable, grown up. “I’m not saying I haven’t made some mistakes… But it’s nothing we can’t work out. You just have to leave Alex. He’s not good for you. You’ll never stop taking these drugs as long as he is around. And that’s important. Once you are clean and can think straight again, you’ll see that I am good for you. And I can change. You’re overreacting a bit, but, yes, there maybe are some issues I might have to address.”
“Get out.” She sounds even calmer than me. I may be on the right way. We’re both calm, so we can talk it through.
“Come on. I think we are getting somewhere. Just give me five …”
“Get out or I call Alex and let him go samba on your weenie dick. You get up from my couch and out of my flat and we pretend this talk never happened. You text me again, or call me, or show up on my doormat, I’ll have your arse kicked seven ways to Sundays and into the next decade. You understand that?”
I do. Alex is the problem. As long as the bastard is around, we don’t have the chance I deserve. Plan B it is, then. When she turns around to get her phone as an encouragement for me to leave, I take the bag and jam it deep between the seat pads.
“Fine. I’ll go.” I put on my jacket, walk to the door. “But you are making a mistake.”
“Please, Paul.” She sounds tired. “Just piss off.”
“Whatever happens, you can call me. You know that. Anytime.”
She turns her back towards me. I close the door, zip up my jacket and take a deep breath. Then I take out my phone, change the SIM card and hit three numbers. Someone answers after the second bell signal.
“Look, I can’t give you my name,” I say and I actually feel a bit sad about the whole affair. “But I’m afraid one of my neighbours is selling drugs to minors. Heroin. Yes. His name is Alex Compton and he lives…”
I hang up a few seconds later, rewove the SIM and throw it into the gutter.
She’ll call.
We’ll talk.
Everything will be fine.
by 
Latest posts by Thurston Maxim Simmler (see all)
- Love Is Stronger - January 24, 2015
- Little Deaths In Venice - December 11, 2014
- Breathe - October 6, 2014
Good stuff!!
Great.