Lost Angeles

by David Louden

  ‘He’s not coming.’ she sighed, curling up in her bed.

  ‘You don’t know that.’

  ‘I know Fairfax to Venice in late night traffic does not take two hours.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I conceded ‘you’re probably right.’

  ‘Take it from me, you’re better off leaving it be. She’s going to hate you regardless, leave her to her anger. It’s all you’ve ever offered her unconditionally.’

  As I nodded, my jaw stretched and an enormous yawn birthed itself from deep within my soul. The hinge of my face, burdened by its girth, ached. Moments later with my eyes watering it returns to its resting position and I’m done. Closing the window I flick the latch on the front door, turn the DVD off, drop to one knee and plant a kiss on top of the soft little furry head that smells like popcorn, always.

  I curled up in bed on my side, placing a hand between my legs to stop them from crushing my lumpy balls.