Vodka Beverage in the Roxy, 2008
Break Up Scene
“Who do you think you are: Lauren-fucking-Hynde?” and with that he slams the door and leaves, which pisses me off because he bought me that fucking book and I didn’t even like it, but I probably deserved it anyway, and I’m really cold because the towel barely covers me. I pick up the pieces of broken glass from the floor, the remains of a bottle of Leffe clinging to them, dripping from them. He bought me my first taste of the buttery shit, up in Edinburgh at the Festival, days before I first seduced with him, and there’s always been some in the flat since, even while he was away. It’s just the way things are. Were. I find my bra on the floor and scoop it up, slipping it on, feeling more human and less like a startled animal. I should have known it would end with a fight: The sex was plain and brutal and he kissed so hard that it bruised my lips. But in two years the bitterness and plastic bags have clouded my memory, so maybe I did know it would end like this. I remember making the first move, while his sister went to the bar, and I whispered gently in his ear and let my zip show more cleavage than I should while she fetched the Scotch, two glasses each, because we were in Scotland and what else are you supposed to drink? Fucking Irn Bru? Now I notice little red drops falling onto the kitchen counter, and what I thought had been dripping beer is actually my blood. I’m still a little drunk, so I didn’t feel the glass pierce my fingertip when I picked it up. No plasters, so I grab some tissue and some masking tape and bodge the job as best I can, while the bedroom door clicks open and you creep out, looking pathetic and cowed, as expected, in my dressing gown of all the ridiculous, effeminate things, and ask “Is he gone?”.
© Matthew Sheret, 2008
