Papier Maché Life

There’s a heaviness in the air tonight. A lukewarm breeze floats through yawning sash windows, grazing soft white petunias as it comes. Our character sits on the sofa, tired but content , sated by Chinese noodle soup with salty chicken and rubbery spring onions. He thinks he’s happy, though the weight of the night air sits uneasily on his legs and there’s an ache in his head that he can’t shake. The sounds of the city drain in from outside, a microcosm of displaced life on an anonymous street. The gay Irish man next door is dining al fresco with a friend this evening. Their cutlery clatters amicably on solid plates. He envies their freshness, lounging outside in the cool night air. He wishes he could see them, but the hawthorn is prolific and sick, obscuring the view. They deserve privacy, he decides. Two ‘phone calls add to the hum of white noise, one from the friend he loves. She’s sad, contorted inside with paranoia and fear. He listens and sends clouds and petals – soft things – her way. He imagines here smiling, as he tells her for the thousandth time that it’s ok to feel down, that life is a papier maché lantern, beautiful to the eye, an iridescent glow emanating out, yet fragile as duck eggs, the delicate paper ready to ignite at any opportunity. We live between times, love, unloveliness, pain, fear, truth, beauty. They’re strangers yet they’re every bit at home on this journey of theirs through life and love. She listens graciously and agrees. They part, he bites his lip and gulps cold tea from a chipped mug. The breeze caresses his face, and he wipes it away with the back of his hand.