The Spot
I don’t know when it all started. One day she was just there, or I was just there. But somehow we were together. Together is perhaps the wrong word, for she looked at me with disdain. She practically attacked me, and for a while I hung around bruised – a horrid reminder of her impatient act. Still, she didn’t warm to me. And so I slunk away, happy to bask in the shadow of her smile and reverberate with her laugh. I thought if I just left her alone a little while then things might change. Persistence and all that. But she seemed to thrive without me, or was at least completely indifferent to my absence.
Then one day she got sad. She was worn down and tired, and I thought I’d pop back up just to let her know someone cared – that I was still there, and yet I only irked her more. Again she went for me, disfiguring me, trying to provoke me. It didn’t work. I’m still here, loyal and forgiving. And yet, despite that, she felt no guilt, only annoyed at my relentlessness in hanging around. I guess she’s bad with commitment.
Other guys, I see them.
They come, they go. But none stick around like me, not that she cares. She has no time for them either.
There’s the ones who pop up when she’s weak after a big weekend – when she’s drunk too much, slept too little and smoked furiously. They’re there to take advantage of her vulnerability. Just like those smarmy fucking sods who show up when she’s accidentally wolfed an entire box of Quality Street in one sitting, trying to let her know that to us she’s still pretty. But she doesn’t take compliments easy, and we only make her feel worse.
She once went to see someone about me. She had hoped they would remove me, and shake me off for good. It didn’t work, but it cost her a few bob.
I really don’t know why she’s like this, because when I found her I finally felt alive. She honestly completes me, and without her I actually think I might die.
And yet she continues in her obsessive pursuit to be rid of me. But you know what hurts more than the physical abuse? The way she tries to hide me. The way she tries to avert her eyes from me, even if her gaze always returns and lingers that little bit too long. Mainly though, what really hurts. What really bloody hurts is that she doesn’t even know my name, FFS it’s been six months! It’s Cyril, btw.
HER: FUCKIN SPOT.