[ON HOLD] LOVE ME LIKE ART

5

— IMANI "BAMBI"
L. CRAWFORD 🫦

MESSY, LIKE PIGS in a trough.

His apartment is a dawn of dull black. The smell is unmistakable, apparent to anyone with a working nose that the bins need changing. Stat. The entire space could do with a spritz of room spray to wash out the decidedly unpleasant trace of sweat and other residuals that cling to the air.

Mr Rolt nods me into the apartment he has had to lease and shows me the fresh roots he has had to plant. There is no wall that separates his bed from his kitchen. He hangs off the door ledge, as beer—that shitty stuff, sounds in his throat and tries to dart into mine.

His jaw is scruffy with stubble, it is obvious that he has not seen a razor in weeks. As he towers over me, he is representative of a man that has seen his world implode.

He stuffs three bills into my thigh band, making the lace whip hard against my skin. These bills that he's palming over could be better spent on something that will last longer than the impending nut I'm about to give him.

Or, whatever magic my fingers might do—like, rent or something to cover his mattress.

There is a red crescent in his eyes and he is so deep in this maze of no remorse, I don't think his mind really recollects what he is risking. His marriage is on the verge of being over and he looks like he hasn't given it any consideration. However, that isn't on me to catechise him because I'm only here, to get mine. The other emotional shit, he has to unpack that himself whether that's in a journal or through a therapist.

"She finally found out, didn't she?" I cruise his room's interior, as my stilettos step inside. I can't help but scowl at his sad, state of affairs. Bin bags are strewn everywhere. Pizza boxes, astray and not deposited in the ways they should, like in a garbage bin.

He's managed to cram his life of maybe 43 years in three bin bags for that taste of my fountain.

"She'll come around." Mr. Rolt is blasé, unaffected as he responds, fumbling with his belt buckle. "She usually does."

From the verses of his dry lips, he speaks.

It is like he knows, that he is sure he will bask in the throes of her forgiveness—even if large parts of his marriage have been marked by a wrecking cycle of infidelity.

Maybe, she's unaware of the depth of his deception.

Maybe, the manner in which he speaks and how he promises he'll be the husband he was always supposed to be, bears fruit on her soil.

I'm familiar with this revolving door and I've messed with enough men like Mr. Rolt that it just takes one.

One moment.

One person to escort her out of the black pits of misery.

One strike of lightning to realise that this isn't the type of love, type of relationship anyone wants. It is like when you've crawled all the way to the point of the mountain, there is little use in looking back.

"We've been doing th—"

I interrupt, blame doesn't lay at my feet and I am not about to let him bury it here. "You mean you have. Don't insert me."

He is quick to resolve as he corrects himself. "You know what I meant, Bambi. I've been disgracefully unhappy in my marriage. It's about time I do something about it."

His lack of remorse is so loud as he blasts it from his lips.

For him, it is obvious to anyone—with eyes that can see and ears that can hear, the this marriage stands no chance of resurrecting.