Snapshot

A young boy, on his bicycle. A cheap, thin mattress, folded on the
back of his bike. His back is crooked from nights spent on a mattress
that doesn't look like it would feel different from a cold, hard floor.
He's weaving in and out of traffic, and never looks back.

An ambulance, blue and red lights flashing, and we looked like ghosts
in its aftermath. The siren wails, and the cars don't move out of the
way. There's someone dying in the back of that ambulance. And no one
cares. Makes me want to go home, and tell my parents, I love
them.

I return home to this:

My father, watching a football match, my mother, painting in the dining
room. She's got red paint under her fingernails, blue paint on her
face. And she's inside the face she's creating. Mimicking its facial
expressions. A smudge of paint - and a cheekbone comes to life. A line
carefully drawn, and thin lips smile. It's a face I cannot begin to
understand. I stand behind her, watching. And her face mirrors the
paper - and I wonder what secrets my mother hides.

I escape to my room to this:

I turn on the music and Nathan's voice filters into the room - I've
been listening to the cd he sent me of his songs and it makes me feel
more alone than ever. So I change it. Flicking through choices -Tori
Amos or Kate Bush and settle on Rufus Wainwright. Thirties cabaret
music fills the room and I think - I was born in the wrong
decade.

I sit on my bed. I should change. Settle into an evening of repetition.
But I'm thinking about that boy on the bicycle. Wondering - is he still
out there on his bicycle, or has he found a place to lay out that
mattress? Maybe he's sleeping under the stars tonight. Look at the
clock. It's only 8 - but I want to sleep. I push a foot under the
duvet, and my thoughts take a turn.

I think of this:

I'm one month younger now. That night we went out. We danced and it
didn't matter that neither of us really knew how. You - doing your
robot dance, me - barely moving. And the music took a turn. Slowed
down. And I was in your arms - you placed one hand on my back, the
other at the nape of my neck. My face - just below the crook of your
neck. You smelled good.

Two days later, you said, "It's over." I said, "If that's what you
really want." You said, "Irreconcilable differences." I said, "If
that's what you really think."

I get up.

Change into a pair of sweatpants and t-shirt. Sit on the edge of my
bed. I'm not comfortable in my skin.

I hear my father shout. Someone scored a goal. And my mother laughs.
She knows my father inside out. Knows what he's like when he's watching
a football match. Knows that talking to him would be pointless because
he's not going to hear a word she says.

I want this:

Familiarity.

Want someone to go to the grocery store with and discuss which brand of
yoghurt to buy. Want to know someone better than I know myself.

But I'm alone. In my room.