We share a meal across speakerphone because you still cannot centre yourself in the camera for longer than three seconds and I refuse to be the only one on screen, sharing an intimate conversation with the ceiling or a flower frozen in bloom on wallpaper. You’ve made honey roasted turkey, mothering an empty nest. You joke about the leftovers you’ll construct your meals from during my absence. I send you a photo of my seat on the balcony, the sun heavy in the sky, crystalising sea. I have never spent Christmas in a strappy dress before or been alone for it. But I needed this. I needed to not force a smile. He is smiling, I am sure, another woman being called love. After you say goodbye, I will go to the beach and swim until I feel free. The sea wind medicinal, rattling palm leaves, anointing head. I think I might be healed here.
Christmas in London is like living in a pocket. Streets stagnate, dust builds. My girl on the beach whilst I roll amongst lint. The heating in my flat has run out and I have opened every window to enlarge my self-pity. Body itching and bulging in wool. I watch my breath curl out the window and imagine it turning through the winter sky until it reaches summer in Chile. I wish my body could follow. I wish my arms were wrapping her in a hug. Instead, egg sandwiches turn stale on the table behind me. I smoke a cigarette for warmth even though I haven’t smoked since I was in my twenties. It is instant peace. This time of year, for most people, is instant peace: family returning home, everything paused. I take a drag, another second closer to reunion. I live inside an interval.
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