‘I can’t listen to Of Montreal with you any longer.’ That was a lie. I couldn’t bear to listen to Of Montreal with anyone but I didn’t particularly want you around, your Eliot Smith vinyls and terrariums took up too much space. You stood before me fully clothed in a predictable plaid-lumberjack number, your lips smacking together as your mouth tried to form words. ‘Do you understand?’ I asked you, pleadingly, begging you with my eyes to just leave. I shifted my towel around my chest, looking at the ground, waiting.Your eyes darted around the room, falling on the stacks of Yeats, deadened shoes at the foot of the bed and my ex’s photography on the wall. You paused to really look at it, squinting your eyes. ‘Why do you even have that on your wall?’ you finally managed. I turned to face it, I took in the shadows, the soft browns, rosy hues and blues of New York and romantic skin reflecting in temporary water. ‘It’s great art…’ I whispered, withholding the truth of the void that he and New York had once left in me. You pushed past me to get closer to the work, ‘You loved him here?’ you prodded at it inquisitively. ‘Yes there, in New York. Not here, not now.’ I wasn’t lying. You stood before it, obstructing my view with your broad shoulders, the drip-drip-drip from my hair slowly began to cease.

‘Will you ever care to love anyone else, ever again?’ You asked me.

‘….I honestly just can’t bear to listen to another Neutral Milk Hotel song.’