We sat in the dark on the settee, and hadn't talked for some time.
I looked down from the living room window at a group of middle aged people gathered around as an opera singer sheepishly signed autographs, edging away, until eventually disappearing down the street.
"I sometimes sit on that chair" he said "and look down the street, sometimes smoking a cigarette and drinking a cup of tea."
Three people, all dressed in neon golf attire, fumble with physics as they struggle to remove themselves from a taxi.
I began to look around at the surrounding buildings, the majority with darkened windows, like wet mascara eyes smudging down their rain soaked dusty bricks.
"It's funny how people never look up" I said aloud, but partially to myself.
"Even god must get bored."
I was still waiting for the cup of tea that never came. A poignant analogy of most people's lives.
We talked more about menial things, drug dealers and John Keates. I read 'To Autunm' although I'm not a fan of the old romantic era.
This city is a docile giant.
"Are you supposed to put a goldfish straight into the bath?" I asked.
"No man! It kills them, they have a heart attack!" He replied.
I couldn't help but think that the fish was dead, and somehow better of this way, not languidly floating around in yesterdays skin.
We said our goodbyes and I returned to my flat. I flicked on the lights and peered into the bath to see the goldfish motionless. "Shit"
I lowered myself to the edge of the bath tub and dipped my finger in, and to my surprise the fish swam away, seemingly, it was just in a state of suspended torpor.
Maybe that's what we all need - a cold bath to feel the waking effects of a heart attack, and the enormous probing finger of curiosity, to push us through the vast, wet banality of drowning in our own existence.
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