Treacle Heart, the quintessential londoner echoes every writer’s desperation up on Melancholy Hill
Writers, whether deliberately or unconsciously, seek each other out in crowded pubs on cold Wednesday nights. I thought you were alright-looking but probably just another creep. While I wrote line after line, frenzied, only stopping to down a jar or take a little bump off a key, I could feel your eyes on me.
(I am partial to entertaining creeps because I like their pathetic little faces
and their eyes that say, “I can’t believe she’s talking to me.”
They are, however, too easy to manipulate and usually
end up boring me: for someone who does not believe
in boredom, this is an inconvenience to say the least)
I asked you if you could keep an eye on my table while I went out for a smoke
and said, “Make sure my drink doesn’t get cleared,” and you said, “or spiked…”
and that was it.
You were a writer for…
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