temporarily titled the concession
I am one of those people for whom clothes were made. My attractiveness belies their conceit; naked I am hardly a shining bastion of appeal, and I have felt girls more beautiful than I withdraw beneath me. Yet those same girls are pressed between my board and my sheets due mainly to the impression my clothed person makes. Of course, I know how to carry it off, but this is a self fulfilling testament.
For now I am aware I look good walking down the centre of the street. I have height and I think it helps. Its not indulgent height, nor is it height that occurs to others; but itís always there, slyly inferring. Although I am careful not to use my height, I like the way close-cropped jumpers and bottomless trousers elongate me. I can rather imagine what I look like from behind now; jeans nonchalantly circling frontal trellis to back-garden crevice, foppish hair that ironically geeks itself, both joined by a woolen top of debatable, inverted style and all hung on a relaxed billow of a walk. I am very fond of my walk.
Sometimes I think love and orgasms are the only things really worth living for, but at the moment I feel quite contented imagining a film of myself walking down this street. I would be the distant kid from class who came into school one day with painted nails, and who – now three years on – people intentionally seek with their eyes to make a contact of greeting. Iím almost sad that the buildings to my side look uninhabited; their windows seem to offer such a plethora of gazes, but it is rather nice walking here alone, in the middle of my road. The stone that I kick lands successfully through the grated drain ten or so meters ahead.
I notice that I am walking in time with the music playing through my headphones. It pleases me, this organic cession. We all repress so much of ourselves itís a wonder we can ever walk properly.
The street is grit-yellow and follows the line of a fleeting squiggle, like the type you see on markable surfaces next to pens in stationary shops. The topography is helped greatly by its concession to gentle ascensions then downward slopes and I think it rather reminds me of the Yellow Brick Road, which I like because it was my favourite film as a child.
To my left two cars are staring at each other in a car park. Wires run between them and I can see two slightly flustered people looking nowhere intently as, presumably, their feet attempt to jump start one of the machines. I cannot hear if they are succeeding. I also cannot hear the black taxi cab that lolls over part of the street ahead, but I can see that it is rolling my way. I look at it piercingly, but it only returns a reflection of the forest behind me. This is my part of the road buddy, out of my way. It is proceeding slowly and I am not slowing, we will meet in six maybe seven seconds. The windscreen continues its reticence; all I can see are waving trees as they slip downwards in the glass image. I look away into the distance, pretend that I fully expect it to move round me; I wonít even condescend to note its challenge. There is perhaps eight meters between us. Itís not going to move. I donít consider it hitting me, it would stop. But itís not going to move. I can feel my legs resist my brain, my mind resist my brain, my brain resist my brain. Just as I go to veer left, the taxi takes a right; there is a Chinese girl in the back pointing the way to her destination. I hadnít noticed the turning.