Fog

Longsands, Tynemouth.

It’s so foggy, Priya says. Where’s, like, the sea?  

Out there somewhere, I say. I can hear the waves, crashing.

It all feels so unreal, Priya says. So … slowed down. It’s like nothing’s in focus. It’s all so muffled and echoey … What are you supposed to do on days like this?

Gaze into the nothingness, I say.

Is that what it is: nothingness? Priya asks. Then you should know all about it. This should be your specialism: nothingness.

Silence. Walking in the sand.

We’re always at a remove from everything, aren’t we? Priya says. We’re always stepping out of the moment and looking down at it. Or looking up at it. Or looking sideways at it. But we’re never in it, are we? Or perhaps you are. But I’m not. Don’t get me wrong – I like being here with you. I like our erotic afternoons, but we’re so meta- … Talking about this stuff. Instead of … whatever …

Talking’s part of it, I say.

We’re always talking, Priya says. And never deciding anything. Never concluding. Where does all this talk lead? Where does it take us? Nowhere. The same place as we were before.

But everything’s a little bit different, I say.

No, everything’s even more the same …, Priya says. All this talking, and we never get to the point.

What point? I say. There is no point.

There’s something important to be said, I’m sure of it, Priya says. Something that wants to be said … Something that could overturn the world. 

Tell me something, then, I say. Say it. Let it speak.

It's not about me speaking, Priya says. Everyting I say just gets in the way.

Just say things, I say. Let it intervene, or whatver.  Tell a story about your past. About your girlhood.

I don’t want to tell … stories …, Priya says. I want to talk about what stories are about. I want to get behind the stories. I want to talk, without saying anything. I want to leave words just … hanging in the air. Just … vibrating  in the fog. God. I’m turning into a philosopher … Turns out philosophy’s infectious. Turns out I can play philosopher.

Listen to me … listen to me talking, Priya says. How come I can talk like this? How did I get to talk like this? It’s like … I’ve swapped places with the air. Like the air’s speaking. Like the fog is speaking. Like the day’s speaking. Like this is the speech of the afternoon.

Do I sound pretentious? Priya asks. I’ll bet I do. Desperately pretentious … Insufferably pretentious …