PSYCHOMACHIA // matty healy

12.

"Matty Healy of the 1975 mentioned you recently, he said you used to live together?" Amelia asked, she was a young woman with a pointed nose, mousy hair and a bluntly cut fringe. Her hair swayed just above her shoulders, I would watch every so often as she would rearrange her few sheets of papers with my interview questions. Her grey tartan blazer clashing with her yellow undershirt, but it worked on her. I could understand why GQ would hire her as an interviewer, she was quite good at getting the best answers from me, personal and professional enough. 

"Yes, well kind of. For about a month in the summer, he had some housing troubles." I fiddled with the hem on my long black skirt, my chunky jumper laying heavy on my shoulders. I was miserable since the cold crept in and the summer slipped away, I missed my summer dresses and picnics. Winter wasn't for me.

"It all happened quite quickly, didn't it? Correct me if I am wrong, but the two of you were never close before." Her dark eyes glinted, waiting intently for my answer.

"I suppose it did, we became close really quickly and, yeah. I don't know really, just seemed right at the time." I smiled after finishing my answer,

"Are you guys still really close now? It's a pretty big commitment letting a friend move into your own space, especially if you're not used to the company." I wasn't sure if that was a bit of an insult.

"It wasn't too much, it was nice to have a bit of company."

"And you're still in touch?" She pressed, it went quiet for a moment and I shifted in my seat, hearing it creak.

"No." 

I trudged home, somewhat precariously to avoid the black ice. I was tired, it was dark and it was only four o-clock in the afternoon. When I reached my apartment, I grabbed my grinder and papers, as I went to grab my roaches I realised there were none left. Agitated, I tore a rectangle from the cardboard packaging of my papers and began folding it. I ground more of my weed, almost out too, and added it on top of the thin sprinkling of tobacco. Once it was rolled, I opened up my sash windows and sat beside them with an old mug to catch any ash. The pungent smell filled my apartment, the smoke coated my lungs. I let my thoughts wander, contemplating countless topics, most made no sense and I doubt I remembered them the next day. I kept the lights off in my apartment most days now, By the time it got dark I was ready to sleep. My things were strewn all over the apartment, not so much organised clutter anymore. I'd succeeded a lot in the last few months, our album was received highly, critically acclaimed and I was doing the best in my career that I ever had. Yet, I was miserable. Hung up on the past, something I have a knack for. I was supposed to go to a songwriting session with my band, I had to cancel. I couldn't find the strength to be able to write anything authentic and I refused to write anything that didn't resonate with me, so I ended up in a vicious cycle.

I heard my bell ring, although now I was high I wasn't sure whether I imagined it. Then I wondered if I had finally been caught for all of the acid I'd ordered online from my soul searching in Glastonbury with the girls. I got up to check,

"Hello?" I spoke into the receiver,

"Let me in." A familiar voice sighed.

"Selma, go home."

"I've been freezing my tits off for the last twenty minutes I've spent walking here, now let me in." 

Begrudgingly, I let her in. I waited with my hip slumped against the door frame, hearing her footsteps reverberate as she got closer. She huffed as she reached my door, pushing past me and slumping onto my sofa bed that I hadn't folded up. I followed her in before switching the kettle on for us both,

"Have you been crying?" She asked, brushing my hair away from my eyes.

"No, that's just how I look." This time, for once, I hadn't been crying.