Curdled

I swear time’s slowing down. It’s supposed to go quickly when you’ve having fun.

Is that what we’re doing: having fun?

Write something for me. To me.

I’ll send you a love letter.

Okay, then. Send me one. Maybe sure it stands out. An old style love letter. By post. Pay tribute to me. Turn me on.

I’d like to wake up with you in the morning. I’d like to go to sleep beside you at night.

So what’s stopping you? Leave him. Move in here.

What would I be doing living with you? I’d only get in your way.

I’d like you here.

Would you, though? This whole affair is predicated upon separation. That’s its condition. Scarcity. You’d have too much of me. I’d always be here.

This flat’s too small for you – that’s what you’re saying. It’s not grand enough. It’s not some big Gosforth house.

They’re all tossers in Gosforth. At least there are real people in Cullercoats. Scuzzy people. Real people.

We’d bore each other to death. We’d be just like everyone else. Best to remain up here. Best to have just this. Contemplating the possibility of a regular relationship, whilst never actually having one.

We’d get on each other’s nerves, you know that. We’d irritate each other. All the annoying things that you do and all the annoying things that even I do. My God.

And that’s how it would play out, like it plays out for everyone. And maybe we’d reproduce to distract ourselves. Which would make things worse.

Would it?

I can't imagine you with a child. 

I can imagine you with a child, though. Cute.

I want some intensity. Something to feel. Am I being greedy? Should I just settle down and be happy? Just accept what I’m supposed to accept?

I’d like to watch you sleep.

I like it when you’re all romantic like that. I like being able to arouse that in a man. To have an effect. Isn’t it nice to be thought beautiful? Even though I’m anything but. I’m getting old, aren’t I? I’m losing my charms. These are the last of my charms …

Anyway, maybe my husband will get rid of me. Wouldn’t that be something? Maybe he’ll kick me to the curb. Maybe that’s what I deserve. And then what’ll I do? I’m used to a lifestyle. I’m spoilt, you’d say. What would I do?

Organisational management means you see everything as a management problem. Existence is a management problem. Sex is a management problems. I daresay I’m a management problem. Only you like me because I’m not quite manageable.

Is that it? Is that why I like you?

There’s a kind of chaos you can’t organise – did you know that? It was there at the dawn of time … no, before time, before the creation. And it’ll be there after it. And everything, ever since, has been failed attempt to impose order on it.

Come on – there’s order everywhere. There are laws of the universe, aren’t there? That’s what physics is about.

Yeah, but order isn’t ultimate. You’ve heard of chaos theory. Of complexity theory.

Is that what you write about?

I write about the tohu vavohu.

What’s that?

The unmanageable, in essence. It’s Hebrew.

So you know Hebrew?

I write about a whole rabbinical tradition of commentary on the Bible. And contemporary commentaries on the Bible.

And do you actually believe in God?

I believe in chaos.

And chaos is going to eat God up – that’s what you believe. Chaos is going to eat everything up. And that’s a good thing. That’s a true thing. And you’ll be happy, even as you’re eaten up.

Why not?

Who’s the organisational manager’s organisational manager? Who’s king or queen of organisational management I want to know. Who organisational managers talk about in reverence? At, like organisational manager conferences? Organisational manager meet-ups. Who’s, like the organisational management legend? Who’s the O.M. GOAT?

Stop taking the piss.

How, like, old is the field? When did organisational management begin? Do real organisational managers read academic organisational managers? Seriously. I want to know.

Just because your subject’s ancient and prestigious and totally useless.

Where are you going to say you were, to your husband? How are you going to account for yourself?

I’ll say I was at the gym, as usual. At exercise class. Or was working late.

Does he suspect? Surely he must suspect. He must have some sense that your mind’s elsewhere. And your body …

My body’s not elsewhere. I fuck him too.

Fuck. You’re so shameless.

I could father a child.

Please.

A secret child. And your husband could bring it up, thinking it was his.

Would you like that?

He’d dote on the child. He’d think the child was just great. A tribute to his ID card pushing virility, or whatever.

You’re too drunk to fuck now. You couldn’t get it up. You’re not exactly potent at the best of times. Nothing’s going to spring from your loins.

You don’t think?

How does he spend his time, anyway?

Consult. Put in funding bids. Zoom calls to Bulgaria and other half arsed nations. Tajikistan. Uzbekistan and the rest. Giving them advice. As if they haven’t got other problems.

What advice does he give them? What does he know about business?

He’s a professor of organisational management.

How could I forget?

He’s consulted with all kinds of people. He’s published a few things. He's actually very productive.

Woo – productive!

Now what?

Why do you always say now what. Isn’t this enough?

I want to do something. I don’t want to lie around, half clothed.

I like lying around, half clothed.

God … Imagine if I moved in. What would we do all day? Lie around? Fuck?

Treat ourselves very well. Eat Cullercoats fish and chips, or whatever. Walk the seafront. Maybe we’d get a dog or something.

A dog?

We’d need something to do … Maybe we’d have a child. Set up home. Buy one of those fancy buggies. Wheel our child along the seafront.

Who would we be, if we were together – properly together, I mean? Different from all the other couples? Would we be able to keep all this alive: the fucking?

Forget it. We’d fall away from all this. You’d start nagging and I’d start … withdrawing … And then we’d split up …

You don’t need me. Not with all my … baggage. You should start anew, afresh. With someone young and cute. Foreign, maybe. Who isn’t as jaded as I am.

Jaded: is that how you see yourself?

I think I’ve gone off a bit. Curdled. And I’m getting old, don’t you think? Too old for you. You need an innocent. Someone cute. With a cute young face. Someone young and unjaded. Not all knowing, like I am.

Anyway, why haven’t you got a girlfriend?

You’re my girlfriend.

A real girlfriend. Not like me.

Maybe this is all the girlfriend I need.