Tuesday 1 April 2008

You know who you are

There are people who are good at waiting. They set up a scenario, watch it play out and then pounce.

They are usually very handsome.

They are the people who notice the dust on the top of the washing machine. The ones who apologise for taking the last slice of garlic bread but do it anyway. They play the guitar like angels, their fingers stroking the strings so softly you can feel them on your skin.

They come round to your house (or sometimes - occasionally - they will allow you into theirs). They act surprised a lot and need a great deal of reassurance.

You can feed them for a year, introduce them to all your friends and fall in love with them. You listen to everything they choose to tell you and ignore the bits that don't make sense because quite obviously it's you that's got it wrong, not them.

They say they hate one side of their face and because you want them to know how much that doesn't matter, you kiss it.

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One Spring evening, when the sun's shone all day after weeks of constant grey rain and you've sat outside in the morning soaking it up in between washing your pillows and trying to peg them out on the line only to have the pegs popping off because the feathers inside - which you weren't supposed to wash anyway - are too heavy when wet, they arrive. Take forever to get out of their car. Open the tailgate and rearrange what's inside. Finally knock on the door.

They do pleasantries. Smile. Acknowledge that you've noticed that their hair is a bit longer than it was before, and that it suits them. Make themselves just available enough, but not quite.

During the course of the evening, they disappear because they have something far more pressing to do than be here with you.

When you text them later to wonder whether they really meant to come back as they said they would only on account of the fact that they haven't come back yet you're starting to have doubts, they don't text back.

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Pouncing is what wild animals do. They make themselves small and match their contours to the landscape. They lie still. They understand watching and waiting and slowing their breathing. Somehow they can become anything anyone wants them to be while still being themselves. They crouch down in the long grass while the sun burns and you feel it warm on your back and through to your bones until you forget to be as wise as you thought you were.

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