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Nobhead
Benjamin is a dick. Everything he said yesterday points to this being an undeniable truth. There’s a little part of Alex that always wanted to see the best in him, always wanted to tell the naysayers that they were wrong, and to confirm that Alex is a good judge of character, just as she’d always thought. But it turns out they were right all along. He’s just a dick.
Alex decided to stop gazing at the barometer, its cheap, spotted brass finish making trails in her vision every time she blinked. Four times she’s tried to get rid of this damn thing; and four times Benjamin has fished it back out of the black bin bag and popped it back on the wall.
Yep. Benjamin is a dick.
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Nothing sounds right
Everything that I used to hear sounds odd now. There’d be buses, denimed mums, soft clicks of keyboards and funnelled steam. They’d jostle for a bit, fighting eachother to be front of the queue, then they’d drop in, slotting between the starts and finishes and overlaps and pauses to make a continuous, popping and rolling soundtrack.
I know now that there was an optimism to it, like it was a prelude - an overture stacking itself and putting me on the balls of my feet because something was coming. Something good, something beautiful and altogether decked in tweed.
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