Pandora's Book

They look at my eyes — gorgeous, protuberant things skirted by junkie red — and wonder. I usually have my motorbike and leathers, would, in fact, have them now, only there was a slight laundering mix up, nothing serious, soon be sorted, but it means, for The Time(s), I must go without. Oh, this? Just something I threw together, no thought, didn't even catch a mirror — hardly representative, indeed not representative, probably not even mine. Hm? No, no, no. My flat burned down, bad toaster, it's a crisp, can't even go there. Just boarding at the folks' in the mean. Nice chaps, not my scene, but what can you do? Should spare me visits for a while — We never see you, sprog; I'm busy, you know, still look the same, got a life and all. But the eyes are the truth, these deep windows, not what you deduce, not what I reveal. That stuff's nothing in the scheme.

Here? Oh, sorry. No, I knew that. Just been on a sabbatical, you know — had to, would have had a bloody heart-attack. Plus, you know, don't want to completely ruin the novelty. Not there either? Christ, I am rusty. No, no, it's a good thing. Keeps me on my toes. That's— Ooh. Um, yes, a little too much build-up, probably shouldn't have taken that extra week. Guess I am human after all, ha ha, yeah, inevitable, you don't mind, of course? I— A wh—? Oh, er, I'm giving quitting a go, actually. Just for kicks. Probably won't last, need something to do with my hands. Here, generally, they smile, furrow, and try to drink it all in, reconcile the facts with the eyes. You can even see the doubts niggling their way to the mouth, which flattens into something of a paternal purse to suit. I'm at the window, something in my eye. Christ, I wish I had my wheels. But what can you do? You couldn't spare me a— Oh, you're the best, cheers. 50% interest, I promise. No, I won't hear it. As soon as I'm off leave, I'll— You're sure? Well, all right, but you must let me— No, that's fine. But at least—

Legs are open, carefree, arms behind head, weary eyes, weary mouth, pitch-perfect but for the invisible details. And, perhaps, the cold. I, uh— Well, I was clean out of tissues, you see, and I had to take something. A last resort, really, I'll burn the thing after I— (Almost genuinely weary here.) You know, people think that, but actually it's just that I tend to slouch a lot, and— I turn, affecting repressed passion and close my eyes, tired. And I stay turned. A rushing suburb, a bleak sky, white scratches on the window, suspicious smudge. 5-4-3-2-1-0-0-0-0. A slow turn, but a good one. Powerful, cinematic. No words, no details, we're all human here. Look: too weary for tears, and strong, but with a definite sadness, like windows, deep, longing, eyebally. Look.