Sweat

Sweat on my back. I am walking along a street that I've become familiar with. I have been here enough times to observe the colours and sounds of this street. The way in which the trees bend northward. The cars that are always parked at the exact same spot since my last visit. The faint smell of the flowers from a bush that I've walked by, perhaps 20 or so times.

This place is becoming familiar to me and I have begun to associate myself with it.

Knock knock.

A cat greets me at the door. Fluffy black-brown-grayish cat with very pronounced tabby patterns on its forehead. A wagging tail is reciprocated with a pat on the head. He's come to say hi.

Yummy tomato base pasta with tuna chunks. He doesn't realise how much I love his cooking even though it is simple. Slurping up copious amounts of Fettuccini as I lay on his bed, I notice how the sheets smell strongly of him. I must be going crazy. I'm falling in love with his scent.

Two bowls of oats to further fill me up. He calls it porridge and I find it funny. He doesn't seem to understand why I do, and I find that teasingly amusing.

~

Sweat on my brow. I awake in the middle of the night to find his hand is on my chest and I find it hard to breathe. He's gone to sleep now, and I am wide awake. 5.30am on the clock; the sun must be rising soon. The wind is blowing strongly outside, and I can hear the gentle rustle of leaves outside the window permeate through the darkness. What is this feeling that I don't seem to comprehend? What is that warmth that keeps me alive? What is that passion?

He grunts a little and turns to face the other side of the bed. I notice the freckles on his back. I wonder if he feels me consciously running my finger across them. I feel like a child again. I'm joining the dots on his back trying to make sense of the irregularity.

I'm definitely insane.

Puss the cat is outside the door as I slowly open it. He's not sleeping either.

Cold water running down my throat to quench my thirst. Puss curls up around my leg, waving his tail in the air as though he's come to inspect me. He must hate the fact that I've taken away his privileged spot as the centre of attention for the night.

~

Sweat on my palms. Connex is on time today, albeit an empty train. My legs feel heavier than usual and my mind is full of thoughts. I am not ready to work on the weekend, and I am not ready to take a break from these intense feelings that I've been indulging myself in. I smell of burgers again, wearing my uniform. I've tried washing it, soaking it, scrubbing it, but the smell wouldn't go away. I don't understand how the girl sitting next to me doesn't feel the urge to vomit.

Melbourne Central platform is deserted. People don't seem to go out on weekends; I reckon they must be at home sleeping or having a good time in the company of friends. What about me? What am I doing here all alone?

Rain falling on my head and wind blowing through my thin blue shirt. I feel cold and lifeless.

~

Sweat on my chest. I'm lying in bed staring at the ceiling, wondering why I feel the way I do. The spot next to me is empty and I notice the absence of his warmth and his touch. I've become addicted to the closeness that I've been exposed to, and I've become dependent on the feelings associated with that closeness.

I feel lonely, and that feeling doesn't seem to go away. I consciously rub the empty spot next to me with my hands, imaging that perhaps somehow under my sheets I'd find his warm hand to hold for the night.

Perhaps not.