I can see her nose. Upturned. Bent to heaven, a ski jump nose. I want that nose. And her crouch. She crouches, picking lice from a Blackberry. Shoulders crushed. Velveteen flexing. Picking lice. Picking lice. Picking lice. Picking lice.

And her mouth, it moves. Mouthing words she stole from my head. Such burning, searing words. Mouthing them. Against the glass, her breath. I can see. Her breath clouding the glass. Lighting my black violin. Exhaling clouds on my glass. Speaking words, I mouth too. She taunts.

Crabs dancing on the Blackberry. "I'm waiting for the train, Mom." I can smell it in her eyes. I want to smear those eyes, those charcoal bricks. Want to draw pain on her face in smouldering. Diamonds of charcoal. Her beautiful face. Diamonds burn too. The gay guy moves in his seat. Looks up with architect eyes. Bored. I am bored. I could be-so-bored. I could be anything. He would be nothing in my shade. With architect eyes.

She leans now. My black violin. Hips move to silent beats. I mouth the words she mouths. I know the beat she deals. We are one. I catch my black violin. I want to free her. The Chirpygirl moves feet. Points toes at the ceiling. Flirting with the gay guy. Mirrored in architect eyes. Thinks she's on. Thinks she won. She always wins. I could have won. Anyone can win. I could. Be together. But you, you read. What is that you read as I free her face? You read as I play violin. My black violin, can't concentrate.

She moves, creaks forward, wall aloft. Clouds fade as I mouth the words. She pulls tender plugs, wet ears. I hear scattering lice, cold concrete. Chattering of lice. I stand, follow. Homeward. No end, to this. No end. Doors slide silently as whoosh parts gay guy's hair. Architect eyes follow. Catch my glimpse. Shooting glances over shoulders. A warning, perhaps.

I free his face. Scatter plastic frames. Pumpkin nose. Seeds spew onto Gucci. Chirpygirl's foot settling with double-tap. I free it. I double-tap. Green button, beating the door. She dawdles, unknowing, toward rising stairs. I whisper the words, through piss-stinking streets. I feel hidden beats, creosote shadows. I mouth silent words. I follow her home.

Feel light. Disappear. I mouth silent words.

Play black violin, to the bitter end.

Erik Ryman has been called many things, vagrant, drunk, addict, idiot, writer, idiot again and more generally, an idiot. He is responsible for three books all of which are now available from bluechrome, including the tsetsefly chronicles and Doctor Mooze. His work has been compared (favourably) to the films of David Lynch and Quentin Tarantino, the poetry of Jeremy Reed and the fiction of JD Sallinger, Douglas Coupland, Terry Pratchet and Irvine Walsh, but he has never taken it personally. He is, put simply, never predictable.

© 2008 Laura Hird All rights reserved.