post 6 : hope

“You know what it is?” I say as I make my way through the kitchen almost dance like; slicing mushrooms and crushing garlic for Ebony’s favourite pasta that she insisted I cook. “It’s hope that’s the bitch. If he would just tell me: “Hey Alice! I don’t like you; back the fuck up” I would, you know? I’m not naïve, I’m not a stupid dickhead I know when people don’t like me.” 

I pour water in the kettle and turn it on, go back to stirring. “But no. Not Owen Edwards, he has to play all ambiguous, like “not here, not how” and then when I try and get him to tell me “not ever” he can’t, he doesn’t.” I spin back around and pour cream over the chicken and bacon, mix it through a little. “He refuses to consider the prospect. And so, hope remains!”

I throw my arms up in the air, hopeless, and a piece of bacon flings off the tongs and lands on the bench in front of Ebony. “Mm” she says, picking it up and putting it in her mouth. “Delicious!”