Friday, 30 September 2016

The start of something (or a memory unfurled...)

I remember clearly, so clearly, crystal, you would whisper, hushed, that the Devil’s greatest trick, his plus belle des ruses, was persuading the world that he does not exist.  Funny, he was not inclined to agree. Why would I wish people to believe me make-believe? Such a foggy notion.  I suggested, shrugging, that God works in mysterious ways. I am not God.  Our laughter realised the uncomfortable silence of unacquainted lovers.  An awkward shifting of weight from foot to foot, left to right and right to left.  Fumbled change muffled by corduroy.

You.  You used to call him the Great Deceiver.  Tucked tight into sheets I would fall asleep with the wetness of your kiss drying on my cheek.  I would dream. So vivid. A magician flourishing, presenting deceit for adoration. So real. The Great Deceiver. He protested. Why would I deceive?  I coughed, unsure, unable to recall a memorable reason.  His ineptitude has been clear from the beginning, has it not?  His dismissive tone convincing.  After all, I exist do I not?  True. His existence was real.  Realistic.  A reality.  Wryly, a smile curling to the left and a thinned eyebrow raising to the right, he proposed perhaps you were a deceiver.  Perhaps.  Although, perhaps not great.  He chuckled.  Was it not you, you who had insisted that his trait of chief trickster was suggested by God?  Bullshit. Only if God was French.  French and blooming in infernal flame.

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