Recycling day

Cactus and hibiscus was what he admired most. I remember it all, a diary with thorns on the exterior. Concepts once unable to flower– what silly flowers. A playful punch to my stomach, a brief interlocking of the eyes, hazel on blue. Such things were forbidden to him, like a grin that passed my temples– nothing. What a strange day it was, my mind an encyclopaedia by sunset.

Let's backtrack. We met at Central Station, but he left by the fifth step on the pedestrian crossing. I watched his face melt into the pavement, he was nothing but a shell by twelve fifteen. Then a train ride. He gave me a book reluctantly as a gift, darting his eyes to the seat next to me. I was not there.

A long walk in Newtown. He anticipated I would buy him sentiment, but I did not. Small thrift stores, Harley Davidson shirts and a plant store we stayed in for an hour. By that point, time had left hastily.

Now I was at a small café. Too repulsed to eat, he watched me consume what felt like my last supper. A hot chocolate and a few pictures he took of me with my camera. I enjoyed the irony of it all, an inside joke with myself. I felt the crumbling happen weeks prior.

Soon we found the Botanical Gardens. I had melted ice cream and met plants that watched my demise in hopelessness, but I felt their withering. I tuned into their squealing frequencies like a trusty old radio from my friends garage.

Drinks followed, something to soothe his distaste for me. Then, a dinner I paid for, just as all the other things. His words haunt me;

"Do you want to grab a drink?"

My infatuation said yes before I could deny the proposal.

So he led me to some bars downtown. Music like poison, alcohol like sustenance. Eyes stuck to my body like flies on a carcass. He held no remorse, only a cup of lust and a hand of menace.

He walked into my apartment with no regard, it was his home. My bed, my couch, my refrigerator– All his. The light snuck into the sheets, reminding him to leave immediately, and leave immediately he did.

A message followed shortly after;

"I don't like you romantically."

That I already knew. In premonition, I wrote poetry and strange letters to reaffirm my intuition. I could not change those sheets for several weeks. They suffered tsunamis of tears and nights coveted with nightmarish landscapes. For a month I began to believe I was unlovable, and the ugliest creature to walk this land.

Months gave way to retrospect, the ripest fruit. I bought a CD player and typed some words out once more. I have a vivid recollection of each second. The seats we sat on, their rusted purple tint and the way he leaned in. My final meal, a train station with everybody but him and clothes that choked my senses like hiccups.

Let's backtrack.

His face laid bare on the pavement. Many people stepped on it like a stampede of hunters scourging for food in the outback. What a sturdy mask he made, all to be crushed under the souls of hundreds, if not thousands.

He was now paper mache. I collected him from the pavement, charity work. I apologise, I missed this part. Only then did we embark on our journey that day.

I carried glue and tape, and some time to create a brand new face. The train ride was harsh, he fell a few times, and watched laughs and remarks from kids and clarks. My painting was fast, and my compliments stark:

"I love your laugh."

He was incapable alone, so I took his gift from his bag, and watched his motionless face of mixed materials try to force a smile. I understood the difficulty.

My walk was harsh, almost five kilometres in the heat. Pit stops at local businesses to purchase more glue and paint to make somewhat of a face. Thrift stores dreading our stay, embarrassed of the process they saw me undertake. I dressed this cardboard boy in shirts and pants, it felt like days.

"Harley Davidson!" He screeched.

In pity I searched each rack, I cut him some slack.

Lunch was most upsetting. Paper can't get wet, we all know that. So, he watched me with jealous goggly eyes sip my drink and eat my chicken wrap. The boy of paper watched me take photos of myself, he knew he wouldn't make the cut.

The gardens watched him be dragged by a back handle I mended to his cardboard body, his legs slowly disintegrating against the pavement. I caught the cacti let out a laugh, nudging the hibiscus to see such a thing.

To follow was music and drinks. They all thought I was out of mind to bring such a thing with me. The cardboard was adamant for some tequila. Each sip drenched what remained more, and more until nothing but a sludge stood before me.

So as a responsible adult, I bagged him up and carried him home.

Level UG (upper ground).

Several garbage bins and a recycling bin were on this floor. It would be cruel to throw such a boy in the dump.

So I recycled him, with cactus and hibiscus.