Brian thought that I thought he was Colin.
But, I didn’t.

He talks so carefully. So politely. Constructing a skin across the surface of his voice. But, I managed to get underneath and dance barefoot. Freely. Across that custard below. So that my toes became wet and sticky and so yellow. Consumed in Brian so that every fold and wrinkle around my ankles and toes felt the gaze of that soppy smile of his the first time I saw him. We were both ten. And all the time, he thought I hadn’t seen him. He thought that I thought he was Colin. That I’d forgotten him.

He never knew that for years I would dream of sailing down the River Brent to travel through the dark underbelly of London and float right in front of his door. To catch him smiling quietly behind the wings of a ladybird.

I loved him! And neither of us knew.


---Jib, 11:15 am, 05 Jan 03