Saturday
My ankles are aching. It's steep, but a few years ago I wouldn't have ached this much, I think to myself.
More of that sweet scent. Trees and damp forest earth. Bird song and occasional wafts of cafe chatter.
It's a short climb, and I am here at the top of the hill, looking out across the whole city.
Teens beside me kissing. German tourists on the other side. One teaches the other about the architecture of fascism. I light a cigarette. Stare out across the city, directly into the setting orange sun. The tops of the mountains begin to loom into view, more visible with the fading light. Those giants, those ancient guardians, those cold and immovable giants. The sound of distant church bells suddenly loud, then just as suddenly faint. Nature in her glory, and the city in her glory, both in step with the other. If only all our cities could be like this, I think to myself.
It's dark now, and the monks have ushered us away. I creep down the hillside, careful not to move too fast, careful not to stumble. I turn around to look back at the church, and am surprised to see instead a huge and full moon, milk in the spring sky, glorious and full of heat and dream.
I have not spoken a word since morning.
Sunday
At my usual cafe, now I don't even need words. The waitress: Ciao! Flat white! and she sets about making one. A tap on my shoulder, the waiter hands me a croissant. I've become too predictable, I say, and they both laugh.
Eleven in the morning, the sunshine on my face, the life in the square.
I buy a jumper. Black cotton. It feels like a hug. Wander the city again. Phone call from Fergal and Sian - Dylan, their three year old and my best friend, wants to speak to me. Where are you? he asks. And I feign being lost, telling him I have no idea. But then again, it's not so far from the truth, and when Sian talks to me before they hang up, I wonder if that's why they called. To keep track.
At night, smoking on the balcony. Feeling the feel of my jumper. Feeling the smoothness of my skin, darker still from all that sun. And feeling the sadness, still, from all that love I cannot give, nor recover. Saira, I whisper. As I do everyday. A curse and prayer.
Fuck.
Monday
I can't get past it. Her. No use in loving her. No use in feeling this ache the whole time.
I feel wasted.
Put on my jumper. Stay indoors.
