XXIV. “Unheard Symphony” by Heather Clancy
I shouldn’t have drunk so much. Most people I know, know when to stop. All I know is that when I actually fucking feel good, I never want it to stop. It’s the only thing that matters, so when I find anything that feels good (drinking), however destructive, I can’t help but indulge. I am a nocturnal animal too and the night is never long enough to feed myself.
I woke up slumped over like I’d been shot in the chest and my neck was sore from hanging my head like it was trying to hear a secret from my navel. A teddy bear with a rip in the neck after the dog got hold of it. I probably wouldn’t have woken up so fucking early if my neighbours weren’t going at it like dogs. Fighting, I mean, not fucking. Although they did an awful lot of that when there was loadshedding and nothing else to do besides fuck in the dark. I would have moved to my bed where the sound didn’t travel as much but I was still drunk and in fact I had half a bottle of red wine next to me that I instinctively drained straight down my throat even though it was the last thing I needed. It was warm and metallic like blood. Why did I know what blood tasted like but not happiness? Maybe I had been shot in the chest and now I was a ghost with no one to haunt except myself?
The neighbours were breaking shit now. The dude was saying shit like, “You’re such a stupid bitch,” and the girl kept saying, “Fuck you, piece of shit!” over and over again like she was casting a spell. I kind of knew the girl. We went to the same gym and we’d often both find ourselves in the sauna at the same time after work. Sweating suited her more than makeup did, although she was beautiful with makeup too. But there was something about the oil slick on her top lip in the sauna that made her look like a god I’d worship. The dude was saying, “I need a break from this shit,” and I knew he meant he needed a break to fuck other women because I had once seen him snaking his hands up another girl’s skirt in the stairwell and when I walked past, he said nothing and only winked over the girl’s shoulder as if we were in this together. The shouting was moving. She said, “Get out then, you bastard,” and he slammed the door which made her howl and then the door opened and they’d start up again.
This reminded me of Saint John and I. I tried not to think about him, but recently I started scrolling Instagram in the bath, my arms hanging over the lips of the tub, my eyes not blinking while looking at pictures of him posing topless with his new girlfriend. In every photo his eyes were the same. He was the hottest person I’d ever dated and he wore two gold chains like I did. It should have been me in those photos.
The door slammed and I knew it was the last time. I could already hear that asshole’s sneakers squeak outta the corridor down the stairs. He definitely had a side chick. The dude practically had a bounce in his step. Live long enough and you’ll be left howling on the cold tiles while your drunk neighbour thinks about how your tits look in the sauna.
Later at work I called my best friend Neo while my boss was on lunch and told her what had happened. “Jesus, what a dick,” she said and I could hear her typing in the background. She asked me if I knew the girl and said I should invite her out with us tonight. “Why not?” I could hear she wasn’t concentrating but neither was I. I was scrolling Instagram trying to remember her name so I could see if she posted anything that made it obvious she was going through a breakup. The best breakup caption I ever saw was: under new management. I remembered I saved it in my notes to use in case Saint John broke up with me. He eventually did and I never used the caption. Instead, I posted a picture Neo took of me when I blacked out in a bra on the couch and with the caption: THE GIRL OF YOUR DREAMS.
The girl, Rosetta, I remembered her name, was smoking outside by the time I got home from work. She was wearing a white tank top with a black bra and her clavicle seemed like a better home for me than this damp apartment block. It got hot as fuck in Cape Town and yet this block always had a damp smell like sneakers left out in the rain. She stared at me and before I knew what I was really saying I had asked her if she’d like to go out tonight. She never stopped staring and said yes as if she had orchestrated this whole thing and I was late.
We were at a house party in Tamboerskloof. The sun had set hours ago but left its heat. I felt like if I was a plant, I’d be twisting upwards towards an invisible heaven, but I’d never been a thing that grows and my makeup was very smudged. Rosetta kissed me hard on the lips and said, “Look, now it just looks like you’ve been making out with someone,” as she wiped her lips with the back of her hand. I wanted her very badly I realised. We shared a neat whiskey and rated people on their asses. “That’s a solid fucking cake right there,” she said pointing to a man who I knew would become her new boyfriend that night. I don’t remember much of that night. I remember Neo told me she didn’t know if she should tell me she saw Saint John. I remember Rosetta saying I should text her tomorrow. I remember drinking water straight from the tap when I got home.
I texted her the next day and she didn’t reply. She changed her profile picture. The guy from the party was in it. I stopped looking for her at gym. I started hearing her laughing again. The first time I was cooking rice and her laugh travelled down to my flat like a slinky. I could hear a man’s voice. I said, “happy for you” just to hear my own.
Heather Clancy is a writer based in London. You can subscribe to her newsletter, ‘A Crisis of Infinite Possibilities’, here.
