Colm Vs. Morning

The details of Colm’s marital nor’easter are indeed a snake pit of deceit, public displays of contempt and profound self-absorption. Colm is now my de facto housemate and I’ve made it a point to listen and withhold judgement but I realize that his marriage has reached its present state for two reasons: The inevitable challenges of a long term, semi-monogamous relationship and, well, Colm. It is Colm who texted his girlfriend to cancel dinner plans during couples therapy with Mira. It is Colm who vanished last year to meet with a dying literary hero to research a piece he still hasn’t written. It is Colm who recently stole a bulldozer.

Colm rolled off the couch this morning and decided to delay taking on the day, opting instead for a few more minutes of half sleep, face down, on my living room floor.

Turdling:
When are you going in?
Colm:
Soon. I have advisees showing up.

He spoke without moving, his head spun off to one side at what looked like a painful and impossible angle. He wore the blanket I’d given him as a sarong. I realized I had never seen Colm uncovered. He had a tattoo on his left shoulder.

Turdling:
When did you get that?
Colm:
What.
Turdling:
The tattoo.
Colm:
I was young.
Turdling:
Why do you. . .
Colm:
. . . Oh don’t fucking remind me. . .
Turdling:
. . . Why do you have a spatula tattooed on your back?
Colm:
It was supposed to be a fucking sword, the stupid fucker misunderstood me.
Turdling:
What’s underneath?
Colm:
From Cymbeline. I was an insufferable romantic shit back then.

I bent down to have a closer look: “Golden lads and girls all must, as chimney sweepers come to dust,” in flowing Old English script script, beneath an Eisenhower-era looking spatula. It had a certain absurdist charm at first glance, but upon review it was clearly drunkedy drunk impulse ink.

Turdling:
I have to head in.
Colm:
I’ll be along.
Turdling:
Want me to call in a while?
Colm:
No point, I lost my fucking phone.