‘Can you please give me a hug?” he begs, ‘I don’t want sex from you, I just
want you in my life.”
‘You’re in no fit state for sex,” I laugh. “Look, I’ll be in your life Rac, but I
can’t when your life’s like this. Come on, let’s clean the place up.” I glance around
not knowing where to start. Flies are jumping from
alcohol soaked tissue on the floor where a framed photograph of his pretty mother
lies smashed. His
Bachelor of Medicine and Surgery certificate is still gleaming from its frame on the
wall. I move to look at
it sadly. He graduated five years ago.
I flick through the piles of greetings cards from well-wishers: cards from rehab
congratulating his
completion of sobriety targets; cards urging him to keep it together; cards from his
work pals saying sorry he had to leave. All these earnest voices full of hope rise
from the cards like a symphony of angels and the grace of their innocence strikes
my chest to dislodge Ginsberg’s line Holy the supernatural extra brilliant intelligent kindness of the soul!
‘Rac, who are all these cards from? Did your work colleagues send them after
you got sacked? Oh
Rac, you’re popular, you were doing so well! One of your work pals made you
a chocolate brownie to eat with me when you invited me round for dinner didn’t
she? People are rooting for you!’
‘Do you remember the brownies?’ he yelps.
‘Of course I do.’
‘Look Rose, I don’t want you for sex 8