Venice Amelia Brown

Venice

Amelia Brown

One summer with the window open wide as a mouth you tell me you do not love me anymore over a bottle of beer we are sharing at five in the afternoon hot afternoon, sun-soaked afternoon the shape of our bodies, made by the sun, stuck in the carpet. You help me pack my things into two Sainsbury’s bags for life you roll yourself a joint and you ask me to leave.

On the street I put my knees against a pavement grave and let the Earth cradle me man setting his satnav in a car avoids my eyes too red-rimmed to watch woman with white hair says, “Are you okay? Are you okay?” as she begins to walk away.

The Church is called St. Mark’s Church who is the patron Saint of Venice even though I am in London even though London is hot like Venice I sit at the front on a pew soft as the palms of God wondering what praying would feel like.

“Do you want to speak to me?” says a voice which does not belong to God but to a vicar called Carol. Wraps an arm around my shoulder as it sobs.

I tell her I have lost the woman I love, not to death, but to life and she doesn’t take her arm away

Eventually she says, “I’ve been through that too. Only when he broke my heart I threw a plate at his head and tried to stab him to death with a kitchen knife.” Which I thought was a funny thing for a vicar to say. “So maybe you’re not doing so badly after all.”

Walking back into the day together hot day, sun-soaked day she says, “You will find love again.” “Did you?” I ask, light in my eyelashes. She promises to pray for me.

I get a taxi home. Eat everything in my house. Two oranges and a pot of jam. I put my clothes that had been yours in the washing machine and sit in the heat trying to decide whether I hoped they would still smell of you when they came out.

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