The sad houses of the Ice Queen

The towers of her private agony shut out even the night, no lamps or open windows – just two red lights on top blinking away her tears, so the airplanes won’t get smashed. And who was I to be there, looking up at the dizzying heights grown crooked, in the rain, without her face?

Someone called me an idiot but I’d heard that one before. More than once, in fact. Darling. There was a sign designed to dissuade youths from throwing rocks at trains but bring it on, I said to no one. She said she’d wait. Just a short journey station to station.

I stepped out into a future Canton, whose restaurant signage spoke volumes of the dumpling joys to be found within. Up the stairs to a red and green-themed neobar, racing through the cocktail menu, seeking heat.

April brought along its own idea of a party and in the chilly urban evening’s throat-clearing ceremony I heard something more than blisters, larger than hurt, stronger than fear or getting caught in the rain. I chose to ignore its warning, not unreasonably. I mean, what do you know? They’ll be playing Mogwai at my funeral, I can sense it.

In a house set diagonally on its block as if a child had thrown it there, a dog waits for her mistress. She liked me. Something about black dogs growing grey as they reverse into old age. The corridors were cold but clean, as if no one had ever seen them before. Such deep basins. No lamps or curtains. Projects, or at least people in projects. Major emotional violence on display at every intersection. Inside the saddest love of all.

But she’s a plus sign at the end of an equation. Rumours of line extensions. One more drink. The directness of her eye. The sadness in her houses, to which she had grown oblivious, and who wouldn’t. But when the red light blinked I knew it wasn’t the CD player telling me something in the dark, it was reality bright.

Something about how it wouldn’t have been so bad if only she’d come away with, you know, nice feelings.

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