He kissed me. Twice. One cheek, then the other, swiftly, passing me, stopping to make the gesture, do the gesture, a show of a thing. I stared at him till he felt a niggling obligation, having already past me he turned a moment back, bent down and did it. Maybe it was for the guy sitting next to me. A bit o rough. I quite fancy a bit o rough, and she's probably right, I do fancy a bit o gay.
It keeps happening. Weird, weird logic says it must somehow mean something reflected on me, like, er, maybe I am looking the wrong direction myself. It didn't surprise me all those years ago when he said he thought I might have been gay, well it surprised me a little, but it made me feel kinda cool, not obvious. Maybe I'm just a bit confused that hanging out with a best friend and two guys who are resolutely not interested is really honestly a lovely Sunday, but leaves one feeling marginally cheated. Questioning.
Old hot crush is back. He's not hot per se, he is a bit Eastenders if I'm honest, but crushes are so thin on the ground these days, it's like a dried out lawn with odd scrap of life languishing in the crumpled wiry threads. I've got my hand flat on this parched landscape, brushing over what used to be green and alive, now lain flat dead and dusty. Hand scouring dry earth, kind of nice in itself, a new texture, but remember the greenery, almost I can't actually. If the grass is greener on the other side, I want to go there please.
I am in a kind of stasis. I am, not on purpose I hope, feeling a little May Oh Eight. It's anniversary time and I'm sure it's there still a depth running under the plain and ok. Still getting expired memories, flashes of really, and real heavy longing yearning desperation for second chance. It's interesting. It's my own weight, but it's real too, can I shift it? And on weight, I am uncomfortable. I hope it's not psychosomatic but I look terrible lately. Tired grey, sallow saggy. Divorced, dispirited & ill. I still like them even if they are trite.
I just made a new blog. Or should that be faire-d. I had a name for it pacing the tube corridors a few weeks ago, escalator callings. Despite seeming ideal at the time, thought over and typed in it gave me niggles of a-n, not a good thing, an instinct to believe. So many single thoughts have been used, Googled names showed old and tired. I settled on Voir/Fair. A bit savoir-faire, a bit do make say think, a bit trite, a bit nice. It makes efforts into things I want to record and think about and share, without having to direct it to anybody in particular. It might be a new muse.