Clara says unsettling things like ‘If your moon is in your first house you will be strongly affected by your mother, whether for good or ill.’
I’m sorry but that kind of complex relationship can not be depended on by where my Pisces moon is, surely? I am not sure. I think that maybe sometimes it’s just a relief to say it’s out of our hands, that the great universe is really controlling the flow of our lives. I look down at my hands for the answers.
She adds ‘Beautiful clean, well groom hands forecast satisfaction in life.’
My hands are not bad. They are definitely ageing. In the direct sunlight I can see the grooves deepening like the bark of a tree but they are clean, and superficially well groomed. I have painted my nails and unless you look closer you can’t tell that it’s caked the cuticles. I start to worry about ageing. I do not look in the mirror beside me.
Clara is a bold person. I am attracted to her because she doesn’t give a shit about anything, or anyone. I find that very liberating because I am the opposite. My self image depends upon other’s opinions so I make myself into Clara’s echo, because I love her and she is the strongest, but deep inside I am still me. It’s enough for her, I think. She doesn’t talk about feelings very much, just wide open sky-bound questions and answers about ethereal things that no one really knows the truth of. She likes to feel in control of her own destiny. She reads books and books on astrology, spirituality and natural remedies. She’s a punk but the way she talks sometimes makes me think that her parents were those privileged hippy-types.
Clara is on me now, her bush-like hair in smothering my face. It’s like a grandmother blanket, rough from cheap material but heavy with dedication. Clara backcombs her hair because that’s what the OG punks did, and Natasha Lyonne. When her mouth reaches for mine, I am thinking of Natasha Lyonne in Russian Doll. My hands are already comfortably roaming Clara’s body. My favourite place is the small of her back, where I can extend my palms and fingers to pinch the rise of her hips.. I sink into her neck, take in her smell. Smell is the sense that nearly everyone says they would give up if they had to but I don’t know if I could give up Clara’s unique scent; it is ginger, black pepper and cinnamon blended with furniture musk (she works in a charity furniture shop). I can feel her smile as her chin rests on my shoulder. She’s about to say something, I want her to say how much she loves me, what a profound influence I’ve had on her happiness lately. But she doesn’t.
Instead she tells me that she fucked her friend last night, which is fine, she does this sometimes. She tells me in a sort of whine that people do for sympathy. Clara raises her lion’s mane and grins like a child who’s eaten mud. ‘I wouldn’t have told you, but I think it meant something.’
Somewhere, a galaxy collapses in on itself.
