Ataxia Part Five: Maybe Things are Going to Change or Maybe the Aertex will Continue to Drip on Me.
“It’s getting worse” Sol said as she looked up to the cancerous ceiling bubble. It had been a few weeks of Alfie being home and to his eye things were as bad as when he arrived; the love of his life was getting married. The house was falling apart, his mum was still dead, and he was yet to have done any work. His time up to this point had mostly been consumed by sulking in his room. A valuable past time for the tortured artist but admittedly an unproductive one - one he believed people were beginning to see through; revealing that he was neither talented nor special, but in fact maybe he was just lazy. Maybe if he continued to live the lie of being a great artist long enough, he’d become one by some divine luck. Isn’t that what most artists did anyway. Mope about feeling sorry for themselves till something changed. Sol looked back up to the bubble.
“Where’s Jacob?” Alife inquired.
Sol shrugged. “Haven’t seen him for a while either. We broke up.”
“Oh. So?
“Yep. Moving on and all that. Still pestering Ameerah?” Sol retorted.
Alfie couldn’t hide his gall at the question. In Sol’s usually pointed way, she’d lanced past his sad puppy dog eyes, stabbing him in his fragile ego. Alfie rejected the notion that what he was doing was pestering. He was simply yearning for something that could never be. An ingenious strategy that both shielded him from the uncharted waters of moving on while also leaving him the open door of never giving up. A beautifully tortured limbo that he liked the idea of whilst simultaneously being wholly impractical.
“What do you think it is?” Alfie asked trying to steer conversation from himself and onto the ceiling bubble.
“A burst pipe? I’n’t the bathroom up there?”
“Yeah, I just choose not to look up too often it hurts my neck. Surely dads noticed. He’s the handyman after all.” Alfie said defeatedly, slumping into the red wine stained sofa. Terry, the dog, took this as his opportunity to curl up on top of Alfie’s legs. Sol scoffed. “What’s so funny?” Alfie asked raising an eyebrow, Terry raising an accusatory ear.
“Nothing. Just ironic isn’t it.” Sol shrugged and wandered over to the kettle, beginning two cups of tea.
“Very clever.” Alfie smiled. The ceiling bubble dripped a dirty brown water. “How often does it do that?”
“Only when you’re looking at it. It likes to make a scene.” Sol attempted to carry both cups of tea in her hands, shaking unsteadily, spilling a vast amount of the contents on its journey over.
“Why don’t you just fill it up half-way?” Alfie whined.
“I like the challenge.”
Sol wedged herself into the sofa forcing Alfie to move up; a disgruntled Terry took this as his cue to make his way to his dog bed.
“How do you feel about it all?” Sol asked earnestly.
“What the wedding?” Alfie looked at her, sipping his tea pensively.
“Yeah. We’ll start with that.”
“Over the moon. Bloody thrilled. Really what I was hoping to hear.”
“Don’t need to be a dick about it.”
“Don’t need to try pick my brain.”
“I’m not picking your brain. I’m asking how you feel because I’m your sister you dickhead.” “And you’re all of a sudden caring about my feelings now.”
“Piss off.”
“Not when the news came out. Why was I the last to know?” Alfie growled woundedly. “I told dad to tell you.”
“Why didn’t you tell me Sol?” Alfie spat.
“I forgot.”
Alfie glared at his sister. She failed to meet his eye; Alfie found himself washed with guilt. “Sorry. I forgot about- ”
“Yeah. I don’t! Forgive me for forgetting about your stupid little love life. Just to drag it out because you like all the eyes being on you. You dramatic little shit. Forgive me for forgetting while I slowly got sicker. 3 in 5 Alf! 3 in fucking 5 chance I’ll be in a wheelchair in the next few years. I’m allowed to forget your problems when you aren’t here!”
“Sol. I’m sorry.”
“Ok.” Sol sipped her tea as aggressively as one can sip a green tea. “It’s ok.” “Why did you and Jacob y’know?”
“Wasn’t working. Well… I just didn’t like it anymore. So, I left.”
“Fair enough.” The bubble dripped again. “We should probably put a bucket down.” “When’s the wedding?”
“End of summer.”
“Will you go?”
Alfie hadn’t thought about it. He hadn’t thought much about the reality of Ameerah getting married. There aren’t really any clear rules on this sort of thing. When you were never quite together, but you were never not. Another of life’s many quasi limbo’s Alfie found himself being sucked into.
“Just thought I’d have more time.”
“More time for what?”
“To be ready. To be good enough.”
“Alfie. Don’t be a prick.”
“Thanks.”
“No. I say that as kindly as I can. Don’t be a prick.” Sol used her cup of tea expertly to hammer the point home. “You can’t expect someone to wait around for you.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Then what were you doing?”
Alfie for once had no retort. He wasn’t quite sure what he’d been doing the last three years. Leaving a lot of work unfinished, in all honesty.
“Did you even try talk to her?”
“Occasionally.”
“Why didn’t you go see her.”
Alfie looked stung. He stared into his tea as if the teabag would yield an answer. However, tea bags unlike their loose leafed cousins, don’t yield any great wisdom. They just sort of sit there.
Recipes
Written by George Trueman
I am a 20-year-old poet & writer from Bradford. Originally wanting to join politics, I pivoted to create art as it was the quickest way for me to express my thoughts and feelings about complex matters in a succinct and confident way.