Gravity

Gravity

With three neat flicks of her tongue, the papers were sealed together and laid carefully on the atlas in her lap. Without taking her attention from the documentary, she took a pinch of tobacco and teased out the lumps between her fingers, laying it evenly on the Rizla. She looked away from the TV momentarily, her blue eyes saying ‘tea.’ He took the hint, and grudgingly heaved himself off the sofa, stained mugs clinking together as he gathered their handles.

The kettle was shit, and took ages to boil. An opportunity for reflection. He thought too much. When he was a kid, this didn’t bother him.

‘Jacob?’ If he spread his fingers, he could feel the tingle in the tips.
‘Jacob.’ It spread to his palms. His arms rose slightly, without any effort on his behalf. It reached his elbows…
‘Jacob.’ When it reached his chest – the best part - he began to feel light on his feet, his heels rose from the ground…
‘JACOB! WAKE UP BOY! What could possibly be more interesting than covalent bonding out there?’ Gravity. An outraged-looking Mr Sutton in front of a dusty blackboard.

Click

He blinked, made the tea, took it back into the living room. Pungent blue curls of smoke emanated from the proffered spliff, filling the room.
‘Thanks hon.’ He took it in still-tingling fingers, and filled his lungs, his blood. A billion sparkling chemical reactions. Covalent bonding. ‘We’re out of milk. D’you want me to pop to the shops?’ He was a thoughtful boyfriend. She smiled and kissed him, biting his lip slightly – she knew that drove him crazy – then insinuated herself into the crook of his arm, contentedly cradling her tea, warming her hands because she felt the cold so. Her silver rings clinked against the porcelain.

‘Ria?’
‘Mmm?’ Beautiful blue eyes.
‘Can I borrow your ipod when I go?’
‘Yeah.’

*Once upon a time you dressed so fine*
*You threw the bums a dime in your prime, didn’t you?*
‘Didn’t you!’
He liked silently singing along when he was walking alone. Few people were braving the frigid London night, so he didn’t have to hide his miming. He felt he could walk for miles in his warm coat, stoned and listening to old songs. The smoke from his roll-up combined with the steam from his breath, leaving a satisfyingly solid wake of cotton-wool clouds in the dead-still streetlight.
*You said you’d never compromise*
*With the mystery tramp, but now you realize
He’s not selling any alibis*
‘As you stare in the vacuum of his eyes!’ He closed his eyes momentarily. The nearest shop was darkened and closed. No bother. He walked on, letting the music take him over. A billion chemical reactions.