31sts.

Photo by Kelly.

    ‘I hope you’re sad,’ Lissie sings through my bluetooth speakers in her uniquely soulful, powerful voice that’s somehow both punchy and gentle, with the texture of straw on silk. It’s like she holds it back, deep within her somewhere, then lets it go in wild measures. I scribble in my tatty little floral-patterned A5 notebook, the one I got myself on my 31st birthday. I wish you’d bought me notebooks. 

   I wish you karma. 

   I ponder the date. I don’t wonder what you’re doing, or who you're spending your 31st birthday with. The place I met my ex, the one before you, is closed today. They never close, so it must be an emergency. I’d fallen in love/lust with him at first sight, in there. You were a slower burn; I had to be convinced, coaxed, surprised by the plot twist of it all. I’d been chased up the tree in Act 2 of my story, and pelted with rocks that actually felt warm and soft like fuzzy blankets, hairy sponges or wads of notes. 

   I said to Dad this morning, today is Dickhead Day, and he and I agreed that despite them, we carry on. I saw my SOLD sign this morning. I took cheesy, self-conscious selfies, because I couldn’t quite play it cool. Because despite this day, despite the dickheads, I’ve made something of my own. 

G. x