Fucked Up Modern Love Story
There is blood on my bedside table. When I ask Jude about it, he tells me this usually happens when there is a hornet trapped in the drawer. “Aren’t you gonna let it out?” I ask. “It’s cold this time of year.” And I nod, because it is cold this time of year, and he is always so unbearably right. I cover the bedside table with tissues. I repeat the process, and hope it doesn’t stain anything else than my fingers. He laughs and scratches the back of my head.
At breakfast, I keep hearing the hornet buzzing, shaking the bedroom like an earthquake. I spill my coffee. Jude doesn’t say anything. I apologise and take off my shirt. He looks away as if he had never seen me naked, and I get the urge to throw my whole body in the washing machine. I put a t-shirt on instead. We make tea and pretend the rain doesn’t bother us.
I peel one clementine and break it in two. I give the bigger piece to him and he takes it with both hands. I kiss him on the cheek and the buzzing gets louder. There is a guy who jumped from the 7th floor on the news. No one cares. We eat in silence and I scratch the back of my thigh. Jude makes a joke about a girl he met in the Hamptons before he moved to Berlin. I feel the hornet like the bass in a club beating in my throat. I ignore it. The clock beats eleven and I pretend this is what love feels like.
His mug of tea rests on his desk and goes cold. I wonder if he often refuses to consume anything I touch. I drink it and imagine it’s him drinking me. The thought creates a tingling sensation in my tummy and I chuckle. I rest my head on his shoulder and remember the times he used to cradle me. No reaction. I tap the back of his hand with my finger. No reaction. I drop the half-drinken mug. The shards make him jump. A look of disappointment. A reaction: “It’s alright.”
I tell myself there are ghosts behind the kitchen counter. If they see us kiss, they might fly out and swallow us whole. That’s why he only loves me when no one is looking. That’s why he doesn’t speak to me most days. I remember the time I was little playing in the sand, and I feel my fingers sticky from the clementine juice. I wonder what the streets look like in the suburbs of London; what if the ceiling breaks right now? Like right now. What if I can never write again? There is no sugar left. “There is no sugar left.” Jude hums and places a hand on my shoulder. I begin to think there is some sugar left.
At dinner, we don’t speak. I pretend I feel lucky. I think about the neighbourhood, the couch, the knife. I pretend I know better. Jude tells me about his sister and politics, and I try to make it convincing that I care about Sweden. He speaks to me of empathy. He feels it for everyone, but me. I recall everything Lou told me, and I hear the buzz sounds once again. My glass shakes on the table. We make small talk and I keep my fingers knotted behind my back.
At night, we make love although the blood is now dripping off the bedside table. He is now hungry and I let him eat. He tells me he is happy I am here but he would be equally as pleased with anyone at all. I force a chuckle and run my fingers through his hair while the blood reaches the window. The hornet escapes and enters my mouth. I swallow it and Jude turns his back to me falling asleep. I cry, a buzzing sound in my stomach.
The next morning, I get out of bed and the blood reaches my ankles. On the news today, there is some chick who jumped out the window. No one cares. Jude makes tea and drinks it.
