That’s when the tears came. Then they stopped. I am not sure how much time really passed there. I think it was minutes. The rest of the hours were passed in anticipation of more tears which was a futile past-time. I missed one of the only true sunny days on The Meadows, drinking cider and singing songs (not singing songs) with friends that got it. I didn’t want to be streaky and blotchy and unpredictable. It made me uncomfortable. So I stayed inside and half watched Friends re-runs while eating chipsticks. They’re so salty.
It was a test of resilience. I went to my Mum’s. The threat of tears stopped. I seemed to have regressed about 8 years. Which was fine. Because 8 years ago I didn’t have a boyfriend on his way to fight an unwinnable war in Afghanistan. In fact I had a boyfriend who brought me crème eggs when I didn’t even know I was sad. He took the fall for my musty cigarette smell and told me he loved me behind the garages in his sooped up Corsa as we planned a life we (I) knew we would never live.
My Mum had my tomato juice chilled (it’s a healer, I can’t explain why) and some new BBC crime drama recorded. We could watch what I wanted. But I didn’t know what I wanted so we watched that instead. She knew already.