That’s Life - Part 2

As the blood-trail and I rounded the corner from back-alley to side-alley, I buried my face in the silk and sequins of my scarf. Her scarf. The only thing left of her. And I was the only one left who remembered. The scent of her bubblegum perfume had faded to a ghost in its own right over three years ago, but I couldn’t breathe air so I breathed the memories. Drowned the taste of the present. I lowered the scarf to see what that present looked like. What it didn’t look like was a slender young vision in red collapsing tragically into the arms of some handy stud of a cop, who then vowed to avenge the death of this mysterious, beautiful stranger…eight years in show business had given me quite a vivid imagination. Reality had considerably less style. And no cop. Long, black coat, black trousers, black boots and broad-brimmed hat of (no, not hot-pink, nice guess though) black…it had to be Marx-brother-three, left behind to clean-up. He dragged my body by the scarf, up a make-shift stair of boxes and over the side of the dumpster which has always propped-up the club’s side-wall. The awkward choreography of my corpse’s limbs made me cringe. It must’ve been shock, or denial, or insanity, which made my next thought slip straight out my mouth: ‘You know, if I were alive that would have really hurt.’1

‘Because, obviously, if you were alive, I’d still be stuffing you in a dumpster, wouldn’t I?’ the figure in black snapped. I didn’t need to see the face. That voice was one-of-a-kind. Wisps of ash-blonde, blood-streaked hair floating around her collar, with the scent of bubblegum, clinched it.2

‘Hello, Davida,’ my voice etched reluctance in the air. 3

‘Hiya, Bobby Boy.’4

‘Don’t call me Bobby. And. Don’t. Call. Me. Boy.’5

‘Ooh, we are getting touchy in our old age, aren’t we?’ Vida sing-songed. ‘That what happens to people who live past 20? Jeez! I’m glad I didn’t. O.K. compromise…Bobby Girl.’6

‘My name’s Roberta. Only my friends call me Bobby,’ I said through clenched jaws.7

She screwed-up her face in annoyance. ‘I knew the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach, but I didn’t know shooting him in the stomach blew his brains out, as well. I’m your best-friend. Remember?’8

‘Were. You’ve been dead half-a-decade. Remember? And, if that’s not enough to help me move on, friends don’t throw themselves from fifteenth-floor-balconies without at least leaving a note to say why!’ When the living shout, leaves shake. When the dead shout, shadows quake. By the end of my speech, my volume had risen ’til the city’s pre-dawn-dark rattled itself to shards and spread to engulf the neon.9

‘You want reasons? Fine. I was trying to fly. You want to move on? Follow me.’ And she turned on her heal and marched off. I followed. It wasn’t as if I could go to my dentist appointment. 10