How I’ve never had a venereal disease. How very recently a plant pot fell from the balcony above mine. How I didn’t see the falling. How it smashed. How I lent smoking against the banister and saw the pot smashed into pieces. How I’ll need to sweep again. How to apologise the man upstairs came down with a bouquet of flowers which weren’t in a bouquet but I imagined would soon be in a bouquet. How I mean by this that they weren’t very cleverly arranged. How they looked drab in his hands with the too-small silk gold ribbon tying them together. The crushed-up chrysanthemums. The pinks and purples. How I invited him in for overflowing cups of coffee and couldn’t tell how he liked things so put far too much sugar in his. How he drank it anyway. How some sit with hands full of soil and crumpled bits of worms as they erect great big leaves out of the loose earth. How I found a vase for the unclever flowers and set them on the kitchen table. How light sometimes hits things. How even now the petals have mostly fallen into piles. How we are in rats’ alley where the plants are all losing their leaves. How I have taken a few small cherry tomatoes off their stems and placed them in a nice ceramic bowl right here on the counter alongside sprigs of lettuce and tossed the whole thing with olive oil and balsamic vinegar, cubes of goat’s cheese, some parsley. How people become reduced to rustic sensibilities. How the zip of my skirt was broken. How he could have yanked at it. How my thinking becomes disrupted. How along with flowers, the coffee, there was the newspaper, a phone, RITZ crackers, a plate of bespeckled bits of Stilton cheese, a butter knife, a glass. How there were foundation stains on my blouse. How I’ve been to lots of parties but not once has a plant pot fallen from a balcony. How nothing happens here but the wallpaper. How he and I might have lay in bed tracing fingers into the grooves of wallpapered flowers. How I ignore sell-by dates. How I’ll buy more herbs soon. How he had had the air of a gardener. How I bought plastic urns of sprouted oregano and placed on the windowsill. How despite how I might have torn after the idea I haven’t put much forethought in their cultivation. How he sat across from me. How I don’t have the trappings necessary to entertain. How I angled myself. How I smoke inside. How things leave impressions. How I add the zest of a lime, a lemon, some oranges acquired the previous week and previously forgotten about to the salad. How the grater is my preferred kitchen utensil. How I appreciate adding incongruities to a meal. How I don’t eat at the table. How he spoke and I played with the snag in my tights. How I talked myself empty. How I watched myself. How things fell. How you can hear everything that happens upstairs. How you can hear him as he walks to the kitchen. And then away. How I get so nostalgic. How I leave two chunks of goat’s cheese lathered in black in my bowl. How I am extremely good at eating. How I try and reconcile the inside and outside of me. How there’s an Anaïs Nin book somewhere that I haven’t read. How my hair was wet. How it is again now. How I wash dishes. How I smoke after dinner. How I mentioned the broken plant pot to a friend because she saw the flowers. How the flowers were wilting even then. How I don’t know where decay comes from. How where windows face ultimately seems to determine everything. How I ripped a skirt by stepping on it as I ascended the stairwell. How the lift is broken. How often I give an impression of failure. How there was a distinctly dated smell on him. How I can’t tell you what we talked about. How I forget almost everything. How I don’t even know what I did as a child. How I was just there for a long time. How when he left I sat right back down at the table and saw a ring where his mug used to be. How it wasn’t strictly speaking his mug. How I wipe it away. How the plant pot is still out there. How I don’t do anything about it. How I watch myself. How hair clung to my neck. How it was cold. How every so often I can become very aware of a moment. How I conflate regular sensations into something larger. How I still sometimes steal things. How when I moved here I stole a wok, a frying pan, two mugs, a colander from the supermarket. How I simply walked out with them. How I couldn’t tell him this. How recently I made off with three small cans of readymade gin cocktails in my purse. How I hadn’t planned on it until I was there and thought what the hell. How I use a cup as an ashtray. How the hallway mirror cuts me off at the neck. How we sat. How I fake a detached disposition. How I get distracted. How I rarely know how I feel. How ultimately how I feel becomes very arbitrary. How I won’t replace the flowers. How nevertheless the kitchen is far nicer with them. How there’s a point of stubble on the right side of my chin. How he stood at the doorway. How we both stood. How I picture myself attempting something shy with most strangers that I imagine could make me intact. How I walk back to the balcony. How you can hear him in his living room. How the presence of dirt around some people’s fingers leaves them buoyant. How I get bewildered and belligerent. How I’ll sleep. How I lie down. How I touch myself again. How I forget. How I’ll need to clean out the fridge soon. How inside there is a bell pepper growing wet and pulpous. How I imbue things. How there is something indivisible I’m supposed to say but most likely won’t. How I rarely have the practical language for anything. How I lose interest in trying. How I’ll stop. How I touch myself again. How I’ll smoke after. How there is a certain word I’m looking for. How I might have read it somewhere. How I doze off. How the distinction between things becomes blurred. How there is a second before things go black when I think I’ve found it.