quark and raspberry jam

bagels with quark and raspberry jam. a short black coffee. the rolling stones gimmee shelter. everything is fine.

the backs of my legs are still wet from the rain that fell sideways and almost ruined me and my umbrella. on the couch now, and the cat sleeps at my feet. i haven't had quark and raspberry jam since this time 4 years ago. it's as though melbourne housemates J & M are with me now. rain outside, coffee inside, and tomorrow we'll probably take a stroll to the markets at the collingwood children's farm. we're likely to buy cheese, some bread, and one of those trays of almonds, raisins and dried peach. but today, in my shopping bags, are 3 cheeses. some habits don't die, they just adapt to new surrounds.

last weekend i stumbled and tripped myself up. it was a drunken stumble over a man. i spent the week frowning at myself. maybe i can blame D for giving me that book which is all about a teenage boy crushing on another boy and being too shy and scared to follow it through. it could be one of any smiths songs really. 'why didn't i give him my number... why didn't i rest my hand on his leg... why did i tell him that thing about that guy...' but anyway, so what.

last night i drank beers in surry hills with S who reminded me that 'relationships' are unnecessary. he doesn't want one. most of the time i don't either. but i stumbled, tripped, and forgot myself. which is okay. because it was a moment of tragedy to write up, reflect upon, and file away for later. S says he hates all novels because too often they focus on ideals of love, romance, and needing to be with someone. it reminds me of that book, and most other books i've read in the last few years. not to mention all those films and songs. was this just me trying on another narrative?

the man was pretty lovely. there was instant mutual attraction. and someone (but not me) could write it into a first chapter of a something. i was gin drunk, talking a lot, and very much forgetting everything beyond our transaction. in those moments i poured myself into him. when he left, i was left empty. i'd attached myself to his eyes, hair, lips, everything. i was gone.

anyway, S tells me i don't need that and i believe him. nancy sinatra is now telling me about some velvet morning. i wonder if that cheese on the bench has had time to soften. i contemplate a nice hot bath, a novel, and the caress of more fictions.