NEXT BEST THING
His House / his own / one person / two-bed - nestled in the back end of Stokes Croft. Where we met six hours before. My lips, loosely wrapped around the tail end of a green-tinted cigarette, eyes to the floor after watching her dance. His shoes / white leather and new, grinding ash under toe & later, a whispered was that good for you? And no wait for an answer. The stuttered ends of jaw grinding jaw, bone against bone, as he gulps back two pints of water & places the empty glass on his malm nightstand. Me with no idea where the tap is. And his sheets that smell like last week, navy blue / soft enough. But thin. One fine, flat pillow folded in half while I wait for him to fall asleep / collect my things. Her sheets white. And thick, and covered in violet bluebells. She hands me an extra pillow / she sleeps with just one. And leaves out a pint of cold squash, incase you get thirsty. And then I slept the whole night. And showered off the shame in the morning. But at least it was light -
I leave his house in the dark / he never texts. She brings me breakfast. Toasties piled high on floral china plates / less washing up. Pancakes in pieces / she cuts my name with blunt butter knives, spreads jam in heart-shaped condolences, she wears her victory / chest first / a-cup matching set wonder / she kisses me with the lamp light on. We bathe in a tiled shower, eucalyptus hanging from the ceiling tied in brown string bows. She washes my hair. Massages peach scented bubbles into my scalp she directs the water away from my eyes so it doesn't sting. He showers too, but I bet he doesn't curse his name when the water soaks cold skin, I bet he turns the lights on. And dries off in celebratory joy. I bet he looks in the mirror and sees a warrior / slack mouthed / tight jawed / knowing. Teeth grinding teeth, bone against bone / I dance against poles / whispering i - love - you in the backs of black boxes until the bar man tells us to leave / and there’s stale smoke in my mouth / I can taste it on your tongue / but God / It tastes so much better than his hubba bubba stained lips.
I’d rather sleep with you than in his pressed sheets on The Right Side Of Town. I’d rather take the bus with you and learn about your promises. To the stick end of nowhere, the end of the line of the 219 /You/ all soft skin / glitter crusted cheeks and worn in denim. Orange squash and ice cubes and the smell of your perfume.
Tori Wilder, 27, London - UK ✯ IG: @torisstories8
“Tori Wilder is a twenty-six year old writer, poet and storyteller living and working in London. Her work explores intergenerational relationships, working-class families, sisterhood and Queer identities.”