Change

I can smell it all over my hands. Grease between my finger nails, soap lathered all over my forearms. The skin on my fingers is peeling from all the hot water and chemicals that I use to clean up the utensils and bowls. My mind is racing to the thought of falling asleep on the mess on the floor that I've created. My manager is screaming her head off. I can't hear her. It's all blurry.

Holding a bag in his hand, I spot him standing by the main entrance to my work place. It is a surprise. He has come to take me home.

The weather is warm but his hands are even warmer. I feel afraid to clutch them in mine as we walk through suburbia; with the constant thought of someone leaping out of the bushes and attacking me I don't think I can afford to take the risk.

Then again my feelings must be premature.

Flagging down a taxi on Victoria St. The taxi driver doesn't seem to know the way; he must be new to this job. Pete Murray on the stereo, doing his thing with a guitar. I notice I have a hard on.

He stays in a small house with polished floor boards. Mr Cat greets us at the door, eagerly anticipating whatever it is cats anticipate. Or at least, I assume so; his tail is engaged in a flurry of activity. He must be jealous that I've come to replace him as the centre of attention for the night. Poor cat.

I can feel his warmth on my body now as we lay side by side on fluffy pillows. The soft touch of his lips pressed against mine, hands running through my hair like it was the most natural thing to do. Flashes of the Market appearing in my mind. Where is my mind when I need it to be here?

I don't know how to make sense of this. I'm feeling things I've never felt in a long long time.

I'm starting to learn how to love again.