The Fall of Damien Rants.

Rain. Running upon conservatory window panes, droplets from broken guttering. Inside only typewriter. Words streamed. Images of blackcurrants and winter time and half made oak fires and hatred. Purest of all. Hatred. Of loneliness. Of lovelessness. Writing to get away. He was trapped here, the ring on his finger, worn to brass where he typed, hanging like some stench over everything, everything he did. She was upstairs, upstairs writing or painting or whatever she was doing today. Staring at the paper. She’d never write like he did, never. Trying to write like he did. Trying to write. Trying to write anything at all. One day, one day. She couldn’t. Just staring at the paper. Day- dreaming. Putting it off. Another task, re make the bed, anything but put another word down. Look out of the window for another five. River dimpled in the rain. Reeds and kingfishers. Still nothing. She pours another glass of water, steps out onto the terraced balcony and stands beneath pink and white parasols, rain drops like curtains of diamond all around her. She finds another book and sits. April rain, humid air. Satisfaction. No need to improve. All is reached. No need to do. All is done. Just the want and the need to be. To be with this and it. She’d be Sitting on the balcony She’d be blocked, she’d be unable. Another book to read. Ha, to be static, to be held in check ‘I pity the fool who’s satisfied, I pity the man who cannot advance.’ To be with just her. To act like nothing is wrong, nothing at all, as if you were meant, built, constructed, suited, that way. Pieces in a puzzle. She catalysed his anger, she forced pen to paper. Strawberries at sunset and blackberries on the beach. Soft laughter, easy smiles. Lying by the water side,watching people go by. Time fleeing. As if anything mattered but that, as if travelling, or thought, or money mattered more. The cold touch of his hand in wintertime. The sting of stubble. His smile, his voice. As if anything mattered but that. She watched kingfishers pick their way through the reeds. Days in cafés. Days dragged out in cafés. Wasting the time, chipping it off by second, by minute, by hour, like sculptors aimless. Always the same café. Always the same place with it’s green paint peeling. They’d always go there, to the café where they shared their first kiss. Always hot chocolate, two sugars and just water for Damien.