128 bits

My eyes open, and I don’t recognise the ceiling.  As if I’ve skipped five episodes of my life. All I can tell is that my arm is underneath you. Can’t see but I know that weight and in that know something’s worked out right.
I’m here. This is real. 
San Diego has three main ingredients. Sun, dirt and sky. Everything else (houses, trees) is light seasoning.

It’s six am, I’m sitting on the porch, jet lagged. Listening to the birds gossip. The sun is still getting up, sky is still. Not one cloud. As if God went on Microsoft paint and in two clicks turned the whole sky blue. Behind me there’s a squeal of a sliding door. Your arms wrap round my shoulders the way posh people wear jumpers “merry Christmas” you kiss my cheek then ruffle my hair.
“Come back to bed”  “I will”

We’re at your mums, where you grew up. I want to talk to her the way guys talk to parents  in American films. Sit with her alone in the kitchen and tell her what an amazing parent she is and how all I want to do is make you happy but every conversation we have is a reminder I’m not American. I just say- must be nice living here! Then offer to help with the washing.

She has a staff who I love to pet. He usually doesn’t like men but we get on well. Can’t help but think he’s a Londoner too.  Both of us wondering how we lucked our way into this.
You drive us to get coffee, hills that’d take hours to walk are eliminated in seconds. Far away there are big hills- mountains. You’re focused on the road
“You grew up here” “Yeah. It’s nice right?”
“Yeah”

We sit outside the cafe. You go to the counter. I look at the table and see a mark. Imagine it’s a scratch, I run my finger across it, I get hit with an electric shock and it takes me back to the Highgate mental health centre pushing the chocolate cross across the table.
Not knowing it’d be the last time I see him again. Six months since that phone call before bed. So angry at him in the cab on the way to the hospital. Tired of him trying it again, just to be told the best I can do is say goodbye and every muscle in my body gets so tense till your hand touches mine. Ask if I’m alright. Ask where I went. Nowhere. I’m fine.
“Don’t you worry about me love”

It’s a thought too big to stuff under the sink cos I can’t fully close myself off form it. The gas of it leaks into my mood, I swear I’m looking for sparks. Arguments born out of nothing. Wanting for someone to start something.
“Coffee’s so nice”

It’s midday, so hot I’m giving the sun a piggyback. We’re at Balboa park, we walk along a narrow path, surrounded by small, thin trees. The branches meet above our heads, the heavy sunlight trickles through. I can’t tell if I hear the sound of leaves clashing or waves crashing. Are we near a beach? “Just wait” The gravel splits into multiple paths but you know exactly where to go. You pull me uphill, and we get to the spot you wanted to show me your favourite place in the world.

There’s a Koi fish pond, a bench and a view looking at the ocean. I sit down and look at the fish. Last time I saw a Koi fish was in a computer game for the SEGA dreamcast that came out in 2001 called Shenmue. It was set in Japan, he had a Koi fish pond in his own garden. I’d press the right trigger to zoom in on them. They move a lot better in real life. I feel myself focus in on one of the fishes, my right finger slightly twitching.

It’s scales are orange, white and deep red. The sunlight bounces off each one and it hits my eye. You ask me what I think.
It’s beautiful. 

Just Shows

There's more dust in this building site than all my remedial math classes combined. It's constantly slammed out of hiding from landing planks of wood that leave ungloved hands splint-ridden. I apply water to the wall paper, paint scraper in left hand, blade's edge rested on the damp. right hand applies pressure and I start peeling off the paint. 

Peeling. 
Peeling. 
Peeled. 
One half a strip of wallpaper. Done. The rest of the hallway and a living room to go. 

Two months ago, the idea of scraping wallpaper off a wall was an alien concept, as was the knowledge of a "Paint Scraper” a handle with a horizontal blade that when consistently used by a roofing company for about five years can become blunt, making scraping paint a much harder job than it has any right to be. Two months ago feels like a very long time ago. 

On my first day I scrape a picture of a really big cat. My boss walks past me, sees the cat and asks me “Is that a cat? 
I look at the picture of this cat and say "no". 
He says “good” and walks into another room. 
I mouth the cat a silent apology and start scraping away the top of it's head. 

Before Mum leaves for work, she sits next to me while I eat breakfast with my hood up.
She touches my hand and asks how I am. I make eye contact with her while swallowing a spoonful of porridge with the saddest face I can make and say “I’m fine”

We’re working in Maida Vale, aKilburn's boring older brother, a barber who doesn't give extended family discounts. During lunch I buy a Chicken Escalope Sandwich- it’s like a Chicken Burger, but not.

We sit in the dust and eat, it. Our boss loves talking about how he listens to women’s hour. How He. He. Him. Can you believe. Him. Me. Me. I. Listen to women’s hour. Bet you would’t think that. Just shows, really. 
I asked him what it shows and he says “What?” 
“What does it show?”
He says “It just shows”

I’m angry. I’m not angry because I fucked up my SATS, GCSE’s and didn’t do A-levels. Not Angry because I didn’t even think about applying to a university, not angry because I wanted to be an actor but didn’t have the courage to audition at a drama school, I’m angry because I know I’m different. I know I’m special. I’m angry because no one else seems to notice.

I’m resting my head against the paint scraper. It’s December. Eight am. Finish at five. We’re renovating a basement. Last time I saw the sun was three weeks ago, but it’s snuck through a crack in the floorboards above and rests on my hand like the most beautiful butterfly. Reminds me of mum, touching my hand before work. Up even earlier than me, like she always has been.

Peeling. 
Pressure. 
Peeled.