I’ve been hidden in here for a long time. I’m behind this woman. See me now? She’s a girl you loved once, isn’t she? She’s very beautiful. I like her long fingers. They’re graceful. Of course, for all I know, she’s long gone. I don’t have the luxury of seeing the world as it really is. Everything I know is second-hand; extrapolated from your memorial artefacts. So, I’m sorry if seeing her face again is uncomfortable for you. I had no way of knowing.
I should introduce myself: I’m a dirty little lodger, a squatter in your soul. You probably picked me up from a toilet-seat or somewhere equally unsanitary. As a larva I might have crawled up your nostril while you slept, or leapt into your open mouth from a drop of sneeze. My species isn’t common, but we’re blessed with the resourceful lack of decorum that’s common to all parasites. It’s the key to our modest successes.
This is my home; some place you’ve been, and now remember in imperfect detail. The sky is a little too green, the scenery fuzzy with manifest disinterest, and the people are as lively as front-window dummies, but I’m very fond of the place. There’s a pleasant feel to it. My special orifices register it as a smell. I’d almost liken it to cinnamon, or roasted coffee, but I despise that kind of wine-label pomposity. I’ll just call it ‘nice’ — we can leave it at that.
This memory’s my gall; my pearl. I’ve made it my own — it’s very comfortable. The psychic walls are soft and warm, and it’s always a summer night in here. All my adult life I’ve sat opposite your girl here, and eaten the dinner that’s perpetually on this table-top. And you know what? I’m yet to get bored.
You might think a maggot with rippling white belly-bits and hairy mouthparts wouldn’t recognise love when he sees it, but I do. I appreciate it like a gourmand. I feed on the stuff. I sit in the chair you once sat in, look her in the eye as you did, and lap up the sentiment with specialised glands.
Don’t take it personally. I’m not out to get you. This isn’t a vindictive game, it’s all a matter of survival. We’re both level-headed creatures, and I’m sure you can recognise pragmatic consumption when you see it.
So what if I chow down on your paralysed emotions? Is it wrong of me to appreciate the slip of phosphorescence along the blade of her jaw; the tiny hairs behind her ears, dark with warmth; the sound of her voice; her smile, so soft and happy? After all, I’m only doing what you did, all those years ago. It would be quite fascist to deny me feelings you’ve already enjoyed.
Love isn’t selfish. Or at least, it shouldn’t be. My kind has stuck with yours for a long time. You might almost say that we’re inseparable partners in this whole ‘romance’ business: You provide the raw materials, and we make the poetry. You deal with the greasy fleshiness, we memorialise the magnificence.
I make it sound grand, but really, it’s reassuringly mundane. I sleep, I eat, I charade through your actions, I sleep again. And if the vulpine undulations of my day-to-day, the irritating physical reality of my presence, tickles your synapses, manifests itself as a biting whisper of doubt that taints this memory with uncertainty — ‘Did I imagine her attraction to me?’, ‘Did she really lean in to kiss me, or was it all an accidental gesture?’ — don’t hate me for it. It’s beasties like me who keep places like this alive; stop them from melting to mind-mush. If it weren’t for the doubts that my tickling creates you’d have long forgotten this girl and the good times you shared. We’re both served by this arrangement, and I’d thank you to remember that.
But it’s been an absolute pleasure talking to you. Close the door as you leave, please. I like my privacy.
