Blow out all the candles, blow out all the candles...

You're not always interesting to talk to. You don't see things clearly, you don't know what you've done wrong and you don't listen. You think that leaving someone you don't love is worse than stalking someone for three years. You... think I never finish with people. Or go all the way. You'd be right.

I think that with HC, I will. Or I might.

How can I be so torn? I am perfectly myself with you, because I can see you clearly and you can see me, but I don't think we listen to each other properly. I miss you, still. You held me twice today, and asked me if I was scared. I wasn't. I desire you, still, a bit. It's just that HC excites me more. Though you're so Constant, like your name, and I couldn't stand to think that you might think it was because you're not beautiful when you are, you are, you are. Nobody helped you. I want to be the first to do that, the first to be constant for you.

We sit and chat in the rain for four hours. You rub my back to warm me. I don't stop you, though I know there are other reasons. I smoke an illicit cigarette and drink some of your lager, that you wanted to give up but haven't. You smoke several cigarettes. You ask me about me, but then go off on a tangent, though I don't mind because you generally say interesting things. You correct my French and I flick Vs at you.

And yet, we're gentle with each other. It's odd. We might be good together, you and I, if everything else wasn't in the way. Your slightly racist views, my lack of commitment, your propensity to put people in danger and mine to protect those around me from it. Your drinking. Your kisses are enough... but all you ever wanted was my heart, or my face, without its wrinkles. You only want me because I look good, though that's not strictly true. You are comforting, but you'd rather I looked perfect always, your version of perfect. You do like me for other things too though, deeper things, and you are kind to me, but I need someone that accepts the wrinkles on my forehead and the way I look when I'm about to cry. Not everybody sees that, and you didn't want to. It kills me not to give myself to you, because...

HC is coming. I smiled all the way home from work that day. Beamed as I sailed through the traffic thinking, she will come. I can't remember her, though. I can't quite remember.

I remember her tying a yellow ribbon round my wrist. I remember, in Belgium, how she looked at things. How we didn't speak for 20 minutes, and I don't know why, because I wanted to so badly. I think she made the first move. I remember how she said, 'Fleet... like a fairy place'. I remember her, partially. Fragmented.

I remember the first time that I saw her. I remember her coming into KJ's house, after a drive, looking shy. I decided to be kind to her, because she looked kind. She was wearing the hat she always wears, the one that's too small for her head, and she looked so serious. She is. Then she said that she liked the sound of the word 'Fleet', and I laughed, and thought... oh. I can't remember what else she said that day, but it was enough to make me go with her to collect G's friend from the train station, a team, because I knew the way and she could drive, and enough for me to think of her for a long time afterwards.

What am I doing? She'll never be interested. She is Christian, she lives over the sea. She is coming to see me.

We've only met twice.

What does that mean?

Everybody wants to come to my city. Is that why? Did I ask too much?

Will she expect brilliant things? Oh Lord.