I admit, I was nervous to stay with you. The first time I met you, you gave me a lap dance that I paid ten dollars for, I thought you were in love with me, but then I realised why so many men go to waste in those kinds of clubs. So I bring a bottle of wine. You say ten and I arrive at nine fifty-nine with all my makeup off. It is easy though; words roll off our tongues like waves on the ocean. We talk about art and men, powerfully handsome men. You tell me that you are going to Europe and that you’re going to hit the ground fucking. You tell me about one of these powerfully handsome men, about your elongated infatuation. You have written him an email, telling him to meet you in Rome for two nights, but he hasn’t written back. Little did we know that our manifesting wrote up and sent his reply back to your laptop, saying that he couldn’t meet you because he was with someone else now.
“Can you fucking believe it!” you say to me standing at the end of your bed with your arms spread out beside you not being able to stop yourself from laughing.
Your cat hates me. She sulks around and smells me, smells my cat on me. She sits behind me and hisses if I try and get too close. The whole time we are talking she stares at us from across the room and then when you go to fill the hot water bottle she sits right in front of me and stares into my eyes telling me that you are hers and that I should back the fuck down. But I don’t. We watch half of a film about cowboys and fall asleep back to back. The cat wakes us up at least four times throughout the night demanding to be either let in or let out of the house.
I am woken to you arguing daggers with your ex-boyfriend turned best friend turned brother and you tell me that I had been talking in my sleep.
Words by Cara Fox
Photography by Douglas E Pope