Perspective is a funny thing

I am outside of myself in a mans body walking through the semi crowded Federation Square with eyes searching for a girl I am guessing to be clad in black. She promised to cook me dinner tonight and I said I’d meet her at half two but it’s now six passed three, she probably predicted my tardiness.

There was a plane crash this morning just outside of the inner city and I’m thinking about how the hell it happened. Four people died, I had heard. Four people but it could have been five and I was oblivious in the land of nod. It was nine am and I didn’t rise until my phone rang louder than the music in some shitty, shardy club on Chapel Street at eleven.

Eyes scanning faces and forms, when did everyone begin to get so fat?

There she is

Green and red tartan kilt, a classic vintage piece hacked up to skanky school girl length with black stockings and a black ribbed tee. She’s wearing Doctor Marten t-bars with no socks and a collar, some ridiculous pair of French glasses that look like mantis shrimp eyes. She’s weird and I’m curious.
As I approach I notice her fingernails are in bad shape. Grown out acrylics from a month and a half ago, the polish is an incredible shade of copper but it’s wearing at the stiletto tips and completely  nonexistent on the two fingers missing their claws.
I get closer and see she is reading Haruki Murakami. Closer again and I see her right thumb nail still has the false tip attached but the cuticle end has snapped off completely.
Closer again and I see her eyes are shrouded in two completely opposing colours; one shades of purple, one shades of orange. She is like a forest fire, clouds of dense smoke choking me out with every further reach of my feet.

Her legs are crossed and she’s got vampiric tendencies. Sitting in the only spot of shade and trying to shrink herself as the sun slides through the sky, sneakily trying to catch glimpses of more than her hair.

She hasn’t noticed me yet, hasn’t even glanced up. I’m not sure she’s even blinking. Im not sure she’s of this world.

“Good afternoon”,

my voice rings out but it isn’t my voice and I recall that I am outside of myself talking to myself in two separate bodies. This voice is deep and feels awkward in my throat. I run my tongue over my teeth but these teeth are not mine, I look down and this vest is not mine but it’s someone’s.

She looks up and for just a moment I forget how to breathe through this strangers oesophagous. She smiles and fumbles for her bookmark, closes her book and straightens her posture. She’s remarkable sitting there and waiting for me to sit down, maybe offer a kiss, maybe offer my arm. But these lips are unfamiliar. These arms move with different lengths. These feet feel heavy and I don’t know how to sit in someone else’s body.

She has a small hole on the right knee of her stockings, it’s glaringly white beneath the black of the fabric. It’s hard to focus on both opposing shades. Like her eyes, I can hardly tell if her iris’ match anymore and I think I might be drowning in the lagoons of them, she’s like a siren.

I attempt to sit and take her face in my large, rough palms and I mustn’t have done it right because she lets this giggle out. It’s the happiest sound I think I have ever heard and my head is swimming, safety stroke but it’s not so safe. She sheds her sunglasses and folds them neatly in her lap, wriggles in her seat with her fingers betwixt her own fingers and leans in to grace me with a kiss.

She tastes like cola flavoured slurpees and breath mints. Her lips feel like dandelions and latex or maybe even super malleable silicone but they are so warm. Immediately she feels like a gift. A punk looking pretty ugly gift with a huge nose where the bow should be and I want nothing more than to unwrap her. 

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