Delivery

On my second champagne bottle, I tiptoe around the shards of glass from the first one, wondering why they’re there. Nothing in me soars when I pull out another twenty quid, but at least I keep on living.

It’s not like I feel good about myself, but now strings from the ceiling hold up my wrists enough to dance in the kitchen, then slide to the living room in my socks. I somersault into the sofa and laugh out loud at the television. Every camera from the corners of the room swivels towards me, and I flip my middle finger. I flash my ass and change the channel.

Once I’m settled, my chest thumps as if I’m in love.

The last time I fell in love, I was sweeping up church halls after dark for a living, five days a week and three hours a day. When she texted me back, I’d just put on a varnish in the big hall, where church kids played basketball and the retirement club did badminton. In the text she said, I like you too, and my knees crumbled like biscuits, right in the middle of the room. This is what movie stars feel like. All the lights go on. This is what football players breathe in when the stadium chants their name. It makes your tongue dry. I could cry.

I don’t know, I can’t remember it now, really. I was sober back then. When the next bottle is gone, I waltz with myself and the cameras power down and the lights go off and I lick my tongue and wait for the next delivery in the dark.