January
You told your therapist I was bad for you. I cried in the corner of the office, because I just wanted us to live together, and I hadn’t meant to make you this way.
He said it was okay to be young and full of fear. He had a nose like the beak of a hawk, and tiny glasses without prescription lenses.
‘I know, I believe you,’ you said to him, as he nodded, scrawling a report on his important notepad.
You left his office biting your nails, that yellow scarf pulled tight around your neck. You wobbled in your heeled boots. I knew you were lying.
Elle
12:40
Cocktails tomorrow?
12:45
Ughhhh, yessss. Sugar and Spice, 8?
12:46
See you there xxxxx
The next day, you got the bus to Clapham Junction, and she was there; head nestled inside her winter coat, she rocked back and forth in the cold. Her split ends were backlit by the neon pink sign, Sugar and Spice. Elle had always said she was the sugar, and you were the spice.
‘Hey Elle,’ you called. You were giddy, you always got like this when you were with her.
