There are scars on my heart, just as thick, as disfiguring as those on my face.
I know they’re there. I hope some undamaged tissue remains, a patch through which love can come in and flow out. I hope.
Raymond was waiting outside the front door of the hospital. I saw him bend down to light the cigarette of a woman in a wheelchair—
she’d brought her drip out with her, on wheels, so that she could destroy her health
at the same time as taxpayers’ money was being used to try and restore it.
Raymond chatted to her as she smoked, puffing away himself. He leaned forward and said something and the woman laughed,
a harridan’s cackle that ended in a prolonged bout of coughing.
I approached with caution, fearing the noxious cloud might envelop me to deleterious effect.
He spotted me coming, stubbed out his cigarette then ambled toward me.
He was wearing a pair of denim trousers which were slung unpleasantly low around his buttocks;
when his back was turned I saw an unwelcome inch of underpant—a ghastly imperial purple—
and white skin covered in freckles, reminding me of a giraffe’s hide.
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