“What’s on your mind?”
The vertical line strobes repeatedly demanding my response; the vast empty whiteness of the digitalised box awaiting the dancing of my fingers across the soft receptive keyboard and the expression of the jumble of thoughts pressing at my mind. But, what to say? What to communicate? What to share with the assorted collection of friends, acquaintances and “God knows whos”? What is on my mind?
My eyes flit to the top right as another important update crawls itself onto the screen.
“Helen Buckley commented on her own post …”
And another.
“Sally Doyle was tagged at Pizza Express with …”
Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera …
Yadda, yadda, yadda …
Noise, noise, noise …
Black cursor; white box; calling, teasing and demanding my contribution.
“What’s on your mind?”
Wine! Wine is on my mind. The alluring soft pink glow of some mass produced white grenache full of fruit and flavour and aroma and alcohol. Yes, wine is definitely on my mind and, more importantly, is in my glass sitting enticingly alongside my impatient laptop. It is an invitation I have no intention of declining.
Perhaps that could be my status update: “Hi world, just about to demolish a bottle of cheap, pink plonk … gosh, I’ve earned it”. Or the alternative: “Hi world, have taken up smoking because life’s too long.” Or: “My tiny world of happiness imploded spectacularly at 3.17pm and now I am going to drink and smoke myself into an early grave”.
“Becky Astle updated her cover photo.”
“What’s on your mind?”
It had been one of those moments of déjà vu or premonition or both. I’d known that the phone was going to make its silly text noise before it happened; was sitting looking at my handbag on the passenger seat patiently waiting for it; knew instantly that it was from him even though there was no sensible reason for him to be texting me at 3.17 on a Thursday afternoon; and, even worse, I knew exactly what it was going to say.
I had known four weeks earlier when; as he leant across her seated, upright, professional form; his fingertips had somehow contrived to graze the passively waiting skin of her wrist; as his eyes had failed to resist the twin enticements of her bounteous soft bosom as it sat squashed, captured and upthrust in her scoop necked, fitted top; as his vision lingered with barely concealed lust on the maddeningly full pouting redness of her perfectly painted lips; and when the instructive words that fell from his mouth in barely audible whispers caused her eyes to glitter and delicate flushing to play about her pure un-innocent flesh.
I knew then; knew on the day I had met him at the office so that we might lunch together. The day I had joined him so we might celebrate the anniversary of those minutes when I had stood beside him, clad in white, a proud, petite figure shivering nervously, surrounded by the warmly beating hearts of friends and family and the cold colossal architraves of Norman power, bathed in a rainbow of colours from the sunlight stained glass windows before me. I had meant the promises I breathed that day and he had filled that sanctified place with lies.
“Emily Wilson won against Dave on SongPop.”
“What’s on your mind?”
My fingers tremble slightly as I pull a white and tan death stick from its packet. The lighter is a struggle; the harsh metal cogwheel rough against my thumb and the whole apparatus filled with flint sparks and gaseous emissions that somehow refuse to produce a flame. Frustrated, I drain the half full glass of wine, clink the bottle neck against the waiting rim and watch the satisfying glug of pink liquid filling empty space. Then, as if it only required a full glass of wine to accompany it, the lighter springs into life and I drag abusive smoke deep into my lungs.
“Charlotte Howson commented on Alison Farrar’s status “have a great time”.
“What’s on my mind?”
I don’t want to be me, I want to be her. I don’t want to be small and dowdy and forgotten. I don’t want to be “her indoors”, shuffling around in tunic tops and A-line skirts, baking endless cakes for “good causes”, popping round for coffee and chatter about houses, gardens, and “how wonderfully Nathan is doing at his new school”. I want to be tall and elegant with platinum blond hair falling about my shoulders. I want to be the Jean Harlow of his office; foundation, powder, eyeliner, mascara, eye shadow and lipstick all perfectly combining to display the charm of my youth. I want to sit erect with my carefully manicured nails alternating between keyboard and phone as calmly and authoritatively I seduce the world to crawl before my hosiery sheathed, heel clad feet in idolising infatuation. I want luminous skin that glows heated and confident beneath form fitting cloth; to stand, hands running erotically down the curvature of my hips as his salivating mouth dribbles his lustful need in an ever expanding pool of desire atop his desk. I want to bend from the waist so he can admire the rounded perfection of my buttocks. I want to take his face and press it into the full cup of my breasts so that his tongue can lap at the intoxicating coating of perfume that I have so carefully placed there simply for his delight. I want to be her so that I am not me. I want to be her so that I can be his real life, flesh and blood sexual fantasy. I want to be her so that I can reclaim my husband, may press his cheek to my throbbing breast and know that I am his.
“Debs Hart added a new photo to the album Mobile Uploads”
“What’s on your mind?”
Tears can be pretty; wetted cheeks glistening in the half light of evening, lifting aging dulled skin in a shimmering picture of helplessness. But he can’t see them; can’t admire them; can’t take one of his large fingers and run it up my face to collect the moisture of my distress; can’t sooth my sobbing form with soft words and tender caresses; can’t slowly return an escaped strand of hair back behind my ear; can’t press fingers beneath my chin so that I might raise my pooling salted eyes to his clear incisive blue irises in eternal adoration; can’t lower his lips to mine; can’t push my mouth open so his artful tongue may dance about my panting needy mouth; can’t smoother me with his body and encircle me with his arms; can’t hold heated and flushed and desperate me against his flesh so that my world may be made whole once more. Can’t! Can’t! Can’t!