If I were a drinker, I could have a boyfriend by now

At my physiotherapist’s. I lie supine, he prods at my biceps. He’s a tall, brooding type, a bit like Angel from “Buffy the Vampire Slayer”, except less boringly handsome. As he spins the tale of how he used to come to work zonked out on fado music, his eyes have that faraway look of a complete goner. He talks to me as if he knows me, even though we only met last week. And he abuses the word ‘romantic’.

‘Do you drink alcohol Smilla?’ he asks out of the blue, as he continues to expertly stick his fingers in my trigger points, sending hot needles of pain down my arm, which is kind of nice.

I wait him out a bit, let him prod some more, but I can’t help smiling.

‘What kind of question is this? And what’s it got to do with the work we’re doing?’

‘Nothing. But I just had a moment of terror there, when I realized that you might be an abstinent.’

You’ve got to love Poland.

***

Ah the interminable days of Miss Smilla. Lots of nonsense and picking at my pimples. Occasional glimpses of some terrible beauty and madness. Catching the obscured absurdities and hilarities of life on a fishing rod of my observations, as I stand aside, chewing my hair. Waiting.