HOME | DD

Description
It was the warehouse he called home in which I found myself. It was in the dark corners, and the rickety lift which would take me up. It was through the sometimes bright, fluorescent lights, and the openness of that place that made me comfortable. Many would have guessed; I had called that place home too.

Those things wouldn’t make a home all alone, but when compared to where my belongings were kept, where my family lived, where some suspected I lived, that vast space was as homely as having your Nana bake scones, with jam and cream, on a Sunday afternoon and drink tea until time was no issue -- that homely feel of breathing in the just baked freshness and the out-of-the-oven warmth on your tongue.

I’m not sure what it was, perhaps the un-polished floorboards of the bedroom corner or the cold stones of the kitchen, the way the bathroom resembled a bathroom in a way neither words or could eyes explain. Maybe it was in the finer details. The way the light shone through the old, large, oddly coloured window panes, the noise of the trickling traffic during the night or even the neon glow from the bars around a corner, the corner.

Though these things were wonders I adored, there was one thing that resided in that warehouse, which I realise now, I loved. His name was Alex, and he called me Flower.

Depending on the day, Flower may have taken on Tulip, Daisy or even Bloom. I found I often got nervous around him when I wanted to know something, so I took to writing letters, and he in return. After tolerating being called a flower for some time, I wrote him a letter about that, and upon the return scrawled note, I grew to adore my pet names. I even took to picking the wild flowers in the abandoned lot across the road, on the corner.

We named the warehouse one rainy, Thursday night (I remember it being a Thursday because something interesting always happened on a Thursday at the warehouse, this time, it was a trampoline jumping photo-shoot). We didn’t name it something corny like “The Palace” or “Rustic Mansion”, we named it Elephant. That weekend we had a party of sorts and painted an Elephant mural on the red-brick wall.

*At a time, Elephant was the place I would run away to, when everything in life had built up to combustion point, but it soon became just plain Elephant. I had clothes there to last me as long as I liked, all my necessities catered for. Elephant had stocked cupboards and a steady supply of red wine. I was 18 at the time Elephant became my home and Alex, my family. *

*Slowly everything had built up, we had back drops, lights, a coffee table even. Paints and pens and wild Indian inks, a plunger and those tall glasses iced drinks look so enticing in. *

*Elephant became home. Alex and I had crumpled sheet morning pancakes and barely awake pillow coffees. We began to fight (the letters had stopped) but they always ended with me in his arms. *

Elephant was missing something, so we ordered a red couch. It became a talked about feature of the warehouse, only outspoken by Elephant’s mural. Soon the red couch wasn’t enough and Alex and I were fighting again. Somehow we thought an ottoman, and not long after, a chaise would bring an end to our bickering, but I knew deep down what was wrong. There were no more letters and for some time I had ceased to be Flower.

Things went on as usual for quite some time, and although we were still physical, I wasn’t satisfied anymore. He didn’t make me feel beautiful anymore, and no matter how hard I tried, the passion just wasn’t there. Elephant began to feel cold.

Alex’s career was picking up now, and he would have to spend weekends away on the job, I was fine with this, Elephant was a nice place to be alone. I drew aimlessly for some time while sipping red wine from my well over-sized glass.

People would often stop by; we would drink tea and admire the architecture. Every now and again one of Alex’s clients would call in. He was always friendly and stayed for a cup of coffee (a nice change to my tea loving friends), we would discuss all things, from the coffee beans we were drinking to politics and the scene.

I started writing letters to Alex again, letters only Elephant would hear aloud. My hopes, my desires and my fantasies became my topics of interest. As Brian and I would talk of worldly events in our coffee breaks, I became more and more interested in sharing things with Alex. I grew upset when after a month, Alex had not written me back, although our love life had seemed to be re-ignited in a fashion.

My relationship with Brian had begun to develop into a close friendship and when Alex announced that he would be spending a week in the country to work with a client I invited Brian over to keep me company. I had spoken to Alex about Brian before, but he seemed disgruntled that I would be inviting him over for a week. I assured Alex that Brian was nothing more than a friend and I had never been, nor would ever be attracted to him in that way.

On Sunday evening I was saying goodbye to Alex, as he was waiting for the lift, and Brian stepped onto the landing. I had thought nothing of it at the time, but Alex gave Brian a rather sinister glance before stepping into the rickety old lift. I blew Alex one last kiss before the lift dropped out of sight.

Brian and I stayed up late, drawing, talking and drinking wine every night, and slept in until the hours of the afternoon. We drank coffee and read poetry and cooked delicious meals not entirely soberly. It reminded me of how Elephant felt in the early days, of course minus the crumpled sheets and fogged windows

-That was until Thursday night. Having had two glasses of wine too many that night, I noticed Brian’s advances on me. His touch on my forearm, him sweeping away the hair from my face, and soon holding my head in hands. I simply could not resist at that moment.

I woke up the next day, laying in his arms in mine and Alex’s bed. I shuddered; I couldn’t remember what had happened the night before. I got myself a glass of water and an aspirin, as my head felt like a time bomb waiting to go off. I sat just outside the window on the metal grating with my head in my knees going over everything I could remember from the night before. By then I knew that I had slept with Brian, I was trying to understand why. All I knew was that I regretted it and I needed to get Brian out of our Elephant.

I shook him awake and I yelled at him, I threw all his things in the lift and shoved him in after. I pushed the button and closed the gates and watched as it plummeted down through the building.

It was still early in the day but I poured myself a very large glass of wine, put an old blues record on, and cried. Elephant heard it all. My sobs, my whimpers, my yelling at myself and no one. I began to write. I wrote letter after letter after letter, but I could not say it right. How was I supposed to? How could I break such a thing to him and still be loved?

It was only Friday and I had two more days to wait in agony for his return. Two days that I cried myself to sleep in a drunken stupor. Two days I littered the warehouse with torn paper and scrawled ink.

Sunday came, Alex was due home in the morning sometime, but noon came and went with no sign of his arrival. As did dinner time. I was frantic by this stage, perhaps he knew, and maybe Brian had told him, I thought.

I found the number of the client and rang. He hadn’t been there since Thursday morning. I rang everywhere I could think of until finally I rang his mother. I hadn’t met her yet, they didn’t speak very often, but she knew where he was, and we met after that. We spent the next week together, and I met the rest of his family.

I got Elephant that week, but today is my last day. Elephant was a chapter in my life, Alex and Brian were a chapter in my life. Wine and coffee and oddly coloured window panes are now just another chapter in my life that another observer will shed a silent tear about.

Description
It was the warehouse he called home in which I found myself. It was in the dark corners, and the rickety lift which would take me up. It was through the sometimes bright, fluorescent lights, and the openness of that place that made me comfortable. Many would have guessed; I had called that place home too.

Those things wouldn’t make a home all alone, but when compared to where my belongings were kept, where my family lived, where some suspected I lived, that vast space was as homely as having your Nana bake scones, with jam and cream, on a Sunday afternoon and drink tea until time was no issue -- that homely feel of breathing in the just baked freshness and the out-of-the-oven warmth on your tongue.

I’m not sure what it was, perhaps the un-polished floorboards of the bedroom corner or the cold stones of the kitchen, the way the bathroom resembled a bathroom in a way neither words or could eyes explain. Maybe it was in the finer details. The way the light shone through the old, large, oddly coloured window panes, the noise of the trickling traffic during the night or even the neon glow from the bars around a corner, the corner.

Though these things were wonders I adored, there was one thing that resided in that warehouse, which I realise now, I loved. His name was Alex, and he called me Flower.

Depending on the day, Flower may have taken on Tulip, Daisy or even Bloom. I found I often got nervous around him when I wanted to know something, so I took to writing letters, and he in return. After tolerating being called a flower for some time, I wrote him a letter about that, and upon the return scrawled note, I grew to adore my pet names. I even took to picking the wild flowers in the abandoned lot across the road, on the corner.

We named the warehouse one rainy, Thursday night (I remember it being a Thursday because something interesting always happened on a Thursday at the warehouse, this time, it was a trampoline jumping photo-shoot). We didn’t name it something corny like “The Palace” or “Rustic Mansion”, we named it Elephant. That weekend we had a party of sorts and painted an Elephant mural on the red-brick wall.

*At a time, Elephant was the place I would run away to, when everything in life had built up to combustion point, but it soon became just plain Elephant. I had clothes there to last me as long as I liked, all my necessities catered for. Elephant had stocked cupboards and a steady supply of red wine. I was 18 at the time Elephant became my home and Alex, my family. *

*Slowly everything had built up, we had back drops, lights, a coffee table even. Paints and pens and wild Indian inks, a plunger and those tall glasses iced drinks look so enticing in. *

*Elephant became home. Alex and I had crumpled sheet morning pancakes and barely awake pillow coffees. We began to fight (the letters had stopped) but they always ended with me in his arms. *

Elephant was missing something, so we ordered a red couch. It became a talked about feature of the warehouse, only outspoken by Elephant’s mural. Soon the red couch wasn’t enough and Alex and I were fighting again. Somehow we thought an ottoman, and not long after, a chaise would bring an end to our bickering, but I knew deep down what was wrong. There were no more letters and for some time I had ceased to be Flower.

Things went on as usual for quite some time, and although we were still physical, I wasn’t satisfied anymore. He didn’t make me feel beautiful anymore, and no matter how hard I tried, the passion just wasn’t there. Elephant began to feel cold.

Alex’s career was picking up now, and he would have to spend weekends away on the job, I was fine with this, Elephant was a nice place to be alone. I drew aimlessly for some time while sipping red wine from my well over-sized glass.

People would often stop by; we would drink tea and admire the architecture. Every now and again one of Alex’s clients would call in. He was always friendly and stayed for a cup of coffee (a nice change to my tea loving friends), we would discuss all things, from the coffee beans we were drinking to politics and the scene.

I started writing letters to Alex again, letters only Elephant would hear aloud. My hopes, my desires and my fantasies became my topics of interest. As Brian and I would talk of worldly events in our coffee breaks, I became more and more interested in sharing things with Alex. I grew upset when after a month, Alex had not written me back, although our love life had seemed to be re-ignited in a fashion.

My relationship with Brian had begun to develop into a close friendship and when Alex announced that he would be spending a week in the country to work with a client I invited Brian over to keep me company. I had spoken to Alex about Brian before, but he seemed disgruntled that I would be inviting him over for a week. I assured Alex that Brian was nothing more than a friend and I had never been, nor would ever be attracted to him in that way.

On Sunday evening I was saying goodbye to Alex, as he was waiting for the lift, and Brian stepped onto the landing. I had thought nothing of it at the time, but Alex gave Brian a rather sinister glance before stepping into the rickety old lift. I blew Alex one last kiss before the lift dropped out of sight.

Brian and I stayed up late, drawing, talking and drinking wine every night, and slept in until the hours of the afternoon. We drank coffee and read poetry and cooked delicious meals not entirely soberly. It reminded me of how Elephant felt in the early days, of course minus the crumpled sheets and fogged windows

-That was until Thursday night. Having had two glasses of wine too many that night, I noticed Brian’s advances on me. His touch on my forearm, him sweeping away the hair from my face, and soon holding my head in hands. I simply could not resist at that moment.

I woke up the next day, laying in his arms in mine and Alex’s bed. I shuddered; I couldn’t remember what had happened the night before. I got myself a glass of water and an aspirin, as my head felt like a time bomb waiting to go off. I sat just outside the window on the metal grating with my head in my knees going over everything I could remember from the night before. By then I knew that I had slept with Brian, I was trying to understand why. All I knew was that I regretted it and I needed to get Brian out of our Elephant.

I shook him awake and I yelled at him, I threw all his things in the lift and shoved him in after. I pushed the button and closed the gates and watched as it plummeted down through the building.

It was still early in the day but I poured myself a very large glass of wine, put an old blues record on, and cried. Elephant heard it all. My sobs, my whimpers, my yelling at myself and no one. I began to write. I wrote letter after letter after letter, but I could not say it right. How was I supposed to? How could I break such a thing to him and still be loved?

It was only Friday and I had two more days to wait in agony for his return. Two days that I cried myself to sleep in a drunken stupor. Two days I littered the warehouse with torn paper and scrawled ink.

Sunday came, Alex was due home in the morning sometime, but noon came and went with no sign of his arrival. As did dinner time. I was frantic by this stage, perhaps he knew, and maybe Brian had told him, I thought.

I found the number of the client and rang. He hadn’t been there since Thursday morning. I rang everywhere I could think of until finally I rang his mother. I hadn’t met her yet, they didn’t speak very often, but she knew where he was, and we met after that. We spent the next week together, and I met the rest of his family.

I got Elephant that week, but today is my last day. Elephant was a chapter in my life, Alex and Brian were a chapter in my life. Wine and coffee and oddly coloured window panes are now just another chapter in my life that another observer will shed a silent tear about.