Saturday, 31 August 2013

Richard, fixation.

“Hello Richard.”


It was not a cool voice, nor seductive, perhaps not even intentional, it had sounded like a blurted noise, an accidental, instinctive cry like a yelp or a gasp.  That it happened to take the form of these words I do not credit myself with, she said what she saw.  She had always taken careful measures not to be so precise or, perhaps, polite, in addressing me.  And it didn’t occur to me until afterwards why this was important, why even at the time it jarred with me.  It suddenly seemed that maybe her sparse use of my name was not through coyness or laziness or even, most distressing of all, simple disregard for my presence, but actually a carefully measured discourse she had purposefully restricted herself to in order to appear irreverent or merely indifferent.  Was she capable of this? It is appalling to me now to have to contemplate this in such ignorance, I knew Evie, as she was Evie to me, I could build pictures of her a thousand feet tall with details styled with tooth-picks, I could tell anyone who cared to listen every changing note of scent on her skin, but I am incapable of ever knowing whether she, Evie or Elvie or Ellie, was capable of a finely considered campaign of intimidation through impassiveness, did she have that level of hate, did she have that endurance?  Or was she, in fact, all along, simply indifferent?

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