Image courtesy of Baban Shyam

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.