I. so high, i think i love you
Tap of the rain on the concrete London street as his boots made an empty sound, he walked in quick steps. Shoulders of the thick woollen coat damp, he owned an umbrella, he just didn’t bother taking it, having to now push the wet black strands back from his face every few steps. Lighting a cigarette, hand grazing the stubble, he needs to shave. The light doesn’t immediately catch, flicks it on, again, frustrated. Finally. Puffing the smoke from his mouth with practised body memory at this point. Plucking it from his mouth.
His choice to walk from George’s instead of taking the metro was doing nothing to ease the dull headache he left with. Same way the wine and weed earlier were supposed to. He passed a bar, laughter of people inside made him almost want to rub his temple in frustration, feeling as if someone was aggressively scratching his own brain with a deep black marker. Every sound ringing in his head ten times louder. He was supposed to call his mother today. Text her and apologise. Get lunch with his manager, reassure him Yeah, of course we’re working on it with the guys. No, I’m really better now, the album will be a record breaker.
Seeing from afar the familiar line of buildings he takes the last drag, too long, feels the scratch in his throat now. Swallows and stubs the cigarette out on one of the wet buildings. Fumbling with the keys in his coat pocket he can almost hear his mother’s words in his head. Matty I really think you should move, you’re a celebrity now, it’s dangerous. He could do that, buy a mansion, hire a decent housekeeper, live up to the status he was allowed. He would flirt with the idea of being a proper celebrity yet he would never entertain it really. Would it ease the dull feeling in his chest. Maybe. Takes a better mattress supposedly.
Once the door to his flat shuts behind him he rests his forehead against it for a beat, cold wooden door easing the headache for few seconds before it grows again. Next steps a mindless motion, moving automatically through the flat, feet softer so he must have kicked the shoes off somewhere along the way. Coat on the back of the kitchen chair, mugs and glasses pushed to the corner of the sink, adds plates. Ends up on the couch eventually and pulls out his phone. Texts from Jamie. Bunch of twitter replies. Two mails labeled important. He closes his eyes for a second. The way she looked at him the other night. Pale silk shoulders. The beat George showed him. Hann is getting married. He opens his eyes when startled by the phone ringing. His mother. He rubs a hand over his face as he taps the green icon.
„Dear God Matty, you’re harder to reach than the bloody Starmer” her pitched voice came through the speaker without warning and he rubbed his temple again, squeezing his eyes. Managing to laugh dryly and mutter an apology.
„Just been writing a lot these days really. You know how I get. Album and all.” the lie slips in easily. Should’ve left his mouth with a bitter taste. To lie to ones mother. Maybe it’s the familiarity of it, his sick love language. No it’s fine, don’t worry.
By then she finishes a sentence and he just hums in response with random emotion in it. She’s easy to talk to, his mother, well, not that he enjoys it. She just talks with herself mostly, that’s why. If she’s not stopping every few minutes to suggest what he should do with himself.
„I mentioned you the other day on the talk show. If you don’t mind. Sorry the question was just so funny I had to.”
He didn’t know if he minded. Too late to do so even if. Used to it by now probably. He remembers the childhood. Snap of a paparazzi flash, no, he just wanted to get from car to the building really, why would they follow him, he was nine. Message requests on facebook. Your mother is kissing boys on big brother. Delete. Change name. Truman Black. Jim Carrey. Headache.
She goes talking about her fittings for some UK award TV show she would be attending. His thoughts drift off again. Her lips. Chapped, kissable. Traced with his thumb. If she was in the room now she would probably roll her eyes with that amused smile and mouth to him to be nicer. No, if she was here he would have probably picked up his mother’s call on the first try. Would lean into her palm when she would remind him he didn’t want to come off as distant towards his family. He would close his eyes, feel her gentle fingertips and agree.
He clears his throat, trying to recall what his mother was asking.
„Do you want to get dinner on Thursday in London. Heard of a wonderful place. You’ll love it I’m sure.”
He rubs his eye. Thursday. What day was even now. Friday. A week from now. Eternity in his life almost.
„Yeah, just sent me the details. It’ll be nice” he says mechanically. Line pulled out from the good son textbook.
He drops his phone on the couch once they say their goodbyes. Her last words on the call to Take care. He promises to. What does that even mean. No, mom, I don’t dream of numbing myself anymore, the world just does it for me.
He stares absentmindedly at the ceiling. He could try calling her. Listen to the smooth voice, murmur soft words into the phone speaker. Wank to the way she said his name later when they hang up. Could watch porn. Doesn’t feel bothered to. Thinks of what he would do if she was here right now. Dark strands of hair falling almost to her breasts. Soft swell of them underneath. Always asking her not to cut the hair. Carding his fingers through them. To feel the soft, warm skin at her neck. The way she would look at him sometimes. When he let himself think it was almost with affection. Hann is getting married. He’s 34 next month. The beat George showed him. Her lips. He would let his fingers travel along the length of her leg. That moisturiser she liked. She would use it before coming over. Always using it after a shower. Round plastic container with gold lettering. Saffron, sandalwood, vanilla. Would dip her fingertips and spread it evenly over the skin as she talked to him. He would listen, he always did. Hearing a story about Olivia from work and her cat who fell from the fridge. His gaze flicking to the smooth skin of her thigh. Wetting his bottom lip and looking back to her eyes. She’d chuckle knowingly while shifting closer to him on the bed, taking his arm and rubbing the lotion into his dry elbow. He’d pout. Act like he was offended by the gesture that was supposedly so threatening in its nature to his masculinity. Masculine. Word so foreign. Unnecessary even maybe. Never stopped to think if he felt as such. Tried to lately. Shirts, ties. Soft cotton under her fingertips when she’d let them slide down his chest. What is masculine. His current approach almost more of a mockery. I’m a man. Shirts tucked into jeans. Be a man. Not to come off as too conservative. What is a liberal man then.
His head was heavier again. Reminder that he was in fact still alone in the emptiness of the flat. He shifted on the couch and reached for his phone again. Tap. Unlock. Text her. No. Instagram. Picture of whatever nameless girl comes up first on his homepage. Clicks on the profile as he fumbles with the cigarette packet.
Mel. 24. Scrolls further. Taps on random post. Skirt too short. Breasts almost spilling out of the top. He lights the cigarette and unbuttons his shirt lazily, head resting against the back of the couch. Gaze flicks down to the screen again. Click of his belt. Slow, knowing movements of his hand. Fuck. Question of morality behind it all. Older guy wanking to a girl who put a suggestive picture on the internet. As villain-like as he could get. The stroke of his hand. She posted the picture consciously. Maybe it’s the same as jerking off in public. Just as bad. Fuck. No. The issue probably goes deeper. Faster movement of his hand. Shifting his hips. Maybe she would find it flattering even. The moisturiser. Sandalwood. Rush of blood. Almost light-headed at the memory. Is he a fucking pervert. No it’s the society making this a taboo. What’s so bad if she wants to be looked at. The way she looked at him the other day. To hear the soft gasp into his mouth. Arched back of the random Instagram girl. Drag of the cigarette. Fuck. His hand picks up the rhythm. Her moisturised thigh. No one would raise a problem if a woman touched herself to his picture. Mel. 24. Peach emoji in the caption. Chapped, kissable lips last week. His thumb resting on them. Can almost exactly remember the wetness of her mouth. He moans. Phone slips from his hand to the couch. Screen burning, overheating. Too many open tabs or something symbolic. Guilt of looking and using. Last jerks of his hand. Her mouth on his neck. Sticky cum covers his palm. Chest heavy. Eyes shut so tight he can almost pretend he’s elsewhere.
