CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The next morning Susan woke to a plastered dry taste around her lips. Driving her to the kitchen she gulped a glass of water. Mathew was passed out on the bed with his legs poking from under the blanket. She stood in the door frame of her bedroom with the glass of water attached to her lips. Watching him for a time she recalled the night previous. The latter half of the night was muddled by something, leaving her only with memories of the shoot. She remembered the new feeling of voyeurism and the more she thought about it the more it became a longing. No fucking addiction for me she said to herself gliding her eyes over Mathew’s chest.
The windows were clear, the sky was empty and the sun was out. Would you look at that? The sun was out spreading its creamy yellow rub along the tarmac of the people. Or maybe it was something else it was smearing, but Susan wanted to see it as something as delightful as butter. Suppose everybody prefers to see the sun that way, you know as the warm rub to heat up a cold crotch. Cold limbs are never great, so any warm touch is always a positive, and that’s the way the sun appeared and will always be, according to the glazed eyes of the populous.
Resting on the lap of her windowsill she watched the people, inevitably making her TV jealous. If she was quiet enough she would have been able to hear the faint moans and shuffles from the cardboard TV. It howled no I’m not obsolete you bitch. Susan stayed still unable to hear the desperate slaps from her old TV.
Mathew awoke to a morning of twisted meat with Susan. Chatted for a while and discussed the idea of money. She needed a slice of food in her fridge to hold her down until it was payday, so Mathew provided a temporary handful of green in exchange for a bag of food. Through the talk, they arranged the next shoot for a couple of days ahead. He would work on the material he had shot and captured last night for the time being, while she would find some other outlet to replace the cardboard box, preferably one that doesn’t have as much lip.
Heading to the groceries she did just that, headed to the groceries. Bought food and stuff to put food in. It was almost a celebratory run around the shop, showing off that she could now afford food. First she bought milk, then an assortment of bread. It was a beautiful moment deserving of being interpreted into a poem. Then that poem should be hung from all of the lamp posts on the streets to express her satisfaction with being able to buy food. If that took off then perhaps Susan could do an installation with shop bought food hanging from the ceiling. Perfect, purely creative no? Well she didn’t do any of that shit. She didn’t have the equipment with her, what a shame. It would have made such a beautiful installation. A grown man run by his slicked back hair would have cried in the corner, whispering the words; “Susan you have changed my life..... Thank you... thank you.” She then would have bent down and held him by the neck whispering back to him. “Your welcome” some truly emotional stuff, straight from Susan’s pocket of boredom. She played with the scenario walking around the store poking holes in her plastic shopping bag.
The food that night was more than food. It was a symbol of her actually being a useful member of society. Tasted like ash. The idea of it was more delicious than the actual taste, but she was hungry and the taste wouldn’t have stopped her from anything at that point.
A day passed to the next. It was the inconspicuous night before her shoot the next day. It would be the first shoot that she would do during the day, under the roster of models that flaunted in the agency. She was nervous, fumbling about her flat trying to keep her busy mind from munching on the tender bones of all the possible things that might go wrong tomorrow.
One scenario in particular lingered more than usual. She thought about it long enough for it to turn from comical absurdity into reality. It was based off of a pack of dogs maliciously attacking her randomly during her shoot. It started as a joke to calm herself down, but she ended up delving into the tied and cut strings of the story unintentionally trying to make the scenario believable. A pack of nine dogs in total, each assorted like sweets from breeds to heights and swinging tongues.
What if the door to the studio was left open and I was wearing a dress made out of meat... like fashion people do wear... nah they would have to get through the secretary first and she seems to be made out of newspaper... but then maybe if they were too vicious and overpowered her and ran up to me... but where are they going to come from exactly... it’s not like they are going to appear from nowhere... Shit there is a park nearby and there might be some angry dog training course on... and what if they all escape and run towards me.
Laughable really, but Susan didn’t see it that way, dragging her tracks around the room widening the scenario to accommodate other possibilities. Reaching a point where she exhausted herself, she decided to relax for the night, ease into herself and all the jazz she had time to listen to.
First step to a happy evening was the attire. Knowing instinctively what to do Susan shifted towards her wardrobe to pluck a few strings of clothing. Torn jeans with a black top that drove down to the end of her arms hiding her tattoo. Darkly coveted gloves suffocated her fingers and a navy hoodie that rested on the back of her neck, pushing her black hair into a careless bundle. The thing to take away from this was that Susan really liked the colour black and she found her torn jeans more of a comfort than her sweat pants. Not because of the texture, rather the thought of it being a constant in her life. It was familiar and that was cuddlier than any possible silky texture that someone could strangle her with. Lastly, her boots which she slid up and tightened.
A she fixed them up, they squealed with joy for the rest of the night. Their laces had been tangled for the past couple of days and it was an astounding feeling to walk on known ground.
The next step in her plan was the fogging of the windows. Good material to read, perhaps a good movie to staple to her face. She was open to many things that night, enjoying the process of choice. Smoke billowed along the landscape of the flat leaving her boots to splash in their own numb puddle. Bouncing from end of the carpet to the next they helped her ADHD find a footing within the grooves of the stained carpet. Moments of deep thought were abruptly slapped with a harsh desire to dance. Her boots were more than happy to oblige. With all of her waving watery limbs time had hid itself under the smokescreen that built up in the sitting room.
The night had reached her favourite moment; the curling of her fingers and plush replacement of her skin. Fluffy is tired now... should probably go to bed. And with those solid words she moved to bed, curled in mattress, cuddled in blankets, moaned in thoughts, slept in bed.
It was a tranquil sleep for Susan, but was an eventful match between Mr Black and Grey. The lights were left on in the flat, creating the ring for the rough rubbing of the colours. It was a silent battle that built up over the hours of the night. Yellow from the kitchen counter lamp created the centre in the flat while Mr Black ran in through the windows in an attempt to undermine the already established course of Grey around the shades of yellow. Watching it in real time was fucking deliriously dull, but sped up over time... was also dull. One would have to be a colour to appreciate the visual aspect of the fight.
The main point is that as Mr Black tried to undermine her, creep up on her short body of passive colour she remained steady holding on to the hairs of the carpet. The focus was on Mr Black and Grey, but Yellow had her own plans as well. Situated with an idea Yellow indulged the fight. The further it reached the morning the more of a holding Yellow had on the ring. Calling on her back up; the sun, as she engulfed the flat with burning eggy yellow and pushed the both Mr Black and Grey out of the ring. When all the subtle shades faded and calmed down from their pumped high horses, Yellow had taken her throne into the afternoon of the next day with Susan still asleep in bed. It’s a pity the fight was silent, because it allowed Susan to sleep through her photo shoot.
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