I walked by your flat this morning, the one you used to live in. I have not been along that road for exactly one year. Not since the last time I saw you. I felt like a criminal returning to the scene of the crime. Like a pilgrim journeying to a sacred shrine. Like a child trying to find home. I still have your keys in my pocket, though the locks were probably changed after you moved out. Isn’t that what they do?
Everything was much the same. Your old garden is still full of weeds. Your old window still in need of a coat of paint. And that old abandoned mattress on the path across from you has not been removed yet. You used to say that they would have to declare it a tourist attraction if it remained there much longer. But I didn’t cry when I saw it. I barely glanced at the front door to your house. I walked on until I came to the canal and I sat sipping whiskey from a flask as I watched the swans glide by. And I didn’t think of us feeding them together. Not even once.
The first part of the ‘Cure’ trilogy: