Sat on the edge of the bed, staring into space, still hiding away inside the same suit, the same tie still looped around my neck. No real sleep. My shirt smeared with food stains, 8:01am as the radio alarm suddenly kicks in as I hadn’t reset it the day before. My hand immediately reaching over to slam it quiet and I’m tired, I’m rough, my head like a pinball machine. Like a rush of bells and electronic whistles that I can’t keep quiet, keep still. Screaming into the pillow just to muffle the sound because I just don’t want to hear myself think and pour over her, over the interview the day before and how I never felt so low.
It’s here that the phone rings.
It’s here that I pick up the receiver and answer.
Its here that things really hit home.

“Hi, yeah, I’m calling about the ad . . About the bed?”
-    “What bed?”, I answer.
“I just wanted to know whether its been used?”
-    “Whaddya mean . . used?”
“Whether its been, you know . . used?”, his emphasis on the stories that mattress could tell and it’s here that I realise what she’s done, why she’s put it up for sale, my soft vanilla girl. It’s here that I realise how angry she is. How angry I made her. It’s here that I never felt so low.
-    “It’s just a bed. We don’t need it anymore.”
“Of course, I’d just like to know whether its been . . whether it’s been worn it out?”
-     “It’s a bed. Its been slept in. We’ve had it a few years.”
“No, I understand that. It’s a little delicate but I need to know whether it’s been, y’know, ‘Used?’”
-    “Do you mean, have we had sex on it?”
“Er . . yeah.”
-    “Of course we’ve had sex on it. What the fuck do you expect?”
“That’s all I need to know. Don’t wash it, don’t clean it, just give me your address and I’ll be there in ten.”
-    “Get off the phone you sick fuck!”
CLICK. BRRRRRRR.

And it’s here that something clicks. It’s here surrounded by the half-empty shelves, empty drawers, gaps in the bookshelf. It’s here, surrounded by all the freeze-dried reminders that she’s gone, that the realisation hits me. The recognition that I’m truly alone, alone and out of time. This hyena guilt laughing, watching me narrow, watching me fade. It’s here that something clicks, like a trigger, like a sudden countdown and I become all animated, rushing around like a toy car bouncing off the walls, all fucked up with neon indignation. All sentimental orange and maudlin red. Tearing covers from the bed, throwing them against the wall. Pillows tossed around. It’s at this precise moment that a lamp smashes against the wall, albums, books crash to the floor. It’s here that photographs are scattered, that clothes are strewn around in a wild zoo like frenzy. Glass smashed. Appliances dropped. A heart now torn like paper, screwed up into a ball. It’s here that I never felt so low.
It’s here that I remember the first rush of the rollercoaster years before. It’s here that I call up the feeling of the first sudden loop when the cart flipped over to follow the track, rolling 180° as it curved down into a steep descent, the ground switching sides in a second, the track like a xylophone ahead of us, my soft vanilla girl and I. The blood rushing to our heads, her eyes all soft and lunar as she prized my hand as if for life. Buzzing. Each tacit touch like neon and I’m remembering the exhilaration. Wrapped up in the moment together. The music. The flashing lights. All the fairground screaming and she’s beaming back at me with those soft, almond eyes. Tightly holding onto my arm, not wanting to let go. Never wanting to let go.
And throwing the alarm clock against the wall, ripping books from the shelves, I’m remembering this moment. Our first date together amongst the lights, the arcades when I rushed her over to the parlour, all lipstick neon and tattoo red at the end of the pier.
Falling back over the mattress, over our now lifeless bed I’m staring into the bare light bulb, remembering myself in the chair, needle buzzing, demanding that the moment be inked in, etched upon me forever. The two of us like a fireworks display as she strokes my hand, affectionately kissing my shoulder, my cheek, her eyes focussed on the buzzing needle that nicked my arm with the first drop of colour. Remembering when she climbed onto the chair with me, pulling out her throwaway tourist camera to reach around and snap the two of us, beaming like a fireworks display in the photograph the moment that flash went pop.