Rich Girls and Alarm Clocks
A precursor to the Incident
from 
JoeUser Forums
JoeUser Forums
Rich girl never uses her alarm clock because she never has to get up, she never has to go to work, the most she might have to do is go to uni which she makes sure is always on later in the day.
She always used to call me at 10 in the morning still asleep and unsure of herself, still finding the voice of the day, and I always used to find that sexy - that generic female voice, without personality and history.
But she would always find hers within the first two minutes of the conversation. She would find that one voice and then change it every five minutes.
We would have long conversations in the morning. Let’s face it. I always made sure I didn’t have much to do in the morning either, and I would usually wake up with the phone ringing in my ear, sometimes on my ear, depending on how I had slept the night before. And we would talk about cinema, along with a lot of other things, a conversation as surrogate for learning:
“What do you think of Bresson?”
“Why are you asking me at 10 in the morning? I don’t know what I think about Bresson….isn’t he French? (They were always French). I like him. Good sense of narrative.”
“What do you think of Tcharcovsky?”
“Over indulgent”
“Goddard?”
“Beautiful when he wanted to be, but a Marxist version of a Nazi at others”
“Scorsese?”
“I really have to go to uni.”
“But I wanna talk”
“I really have to go and I mean now”
“But I really, really wanna talk” at this point she finds her other voice, soft and round around the edges, it blurs with the static on the phone. This voice always implies things.
“I HAVE to go. I’m not even ready.”
“I’m coming around to give you a blow job”
“Ok”
The male will always cave at this point. Its morning and the dreams you had the night before still inhabit your bed, swimming in the sweat that collects as a film in your lower back, a spinal fluid of fantasy and minor dreads. But she will come around and lick it off.
She comes in her pyjamas, bare footed.
You like this. You always have.
This is Kodak perfect, a tinsel town television show scenario, Seventh Heaven excluded. But it’s not always like this. It’s not always a vacuum with just two and lazy mornings, sex in the sun and whispering behind closed doors.
It got nasty.
Real nasty.
“Who the fuck are you FUCKING!”
“You. Only two seconds ago.”
“You were thinking of someone else, weren’t you?”
“I don’t think doing that.”
“WHY DO YOU HATE ME?”
“WHY DO YOU HATE YOURSELF?”
“Get the FUCK out.”
“This is my house”
“Fine, I’ll leave. Just don’t expect me to come back”
“FINE”
She would always walk out. I would wait five minute and then follow. She would be crumpled on the sidewalk. Crying with car keys in her hand. She would look like she was dying.
She would always ask if I was going to leave her and I would always say no thinking that I would, thinking if this was the right time to say it.
“I will kill myself if you leave”
She could read thoughts.
I would pick her up off the pavement, the feeling of concrete on bare skin (how I felt), and carry her inside.
My Alarm clock reads midnight.
The next day it would be in pieces.
She always used to call me at 10 in the morning still asleep and unsure of herself, still finding the voice of the day, and I always used to find that sexy - that generic female voice, without personality and history.
But she would always find hers within the first two minutes of the conversation. She would find that one voice and then change it every five minutes.
We would have long conversations in the morning. Let’s face it. I always made sure I didn’t have much to do in the morning either, and I would usually wake up with the phone ringing in my ear, sometimes on my ear, depending on how I had slept the night before. And we would talk about cinema, along with a lot of other things, a conversation as surrogate for learning:
“What do you think of Bresson?”
“Why are you asking me at 10 in the morning? I don’t know what I think about Bresson….isn’t he French? (They were always French). I like him. Good sense of narrative.”
“What do you think of Tcharcovsky?”
“Over indulgent”
“Goddard?”
“Beautiful when he wanted to be, but a Marxist version of a Nazi at others”
“Scorsese?”
“I really have to go to uni.”
“But I wanna talk”
“I really have to go and I mean now”
“But I really, really wanna talk” at this point she finds her other voice, soft and round around the edges, it blurs with the static on the phone. This voice always implies things.
“I HAVE to go. I’m not even ready.”
“I’m coming around to give you a blow job”
“Ok”
The male will always cave at this point. Its morning and the dreams you had the night before still inhabit your bed, swimming in the sweat that collects as a film in your lower back, a spinal fluid of fantasy and minor dreads. But she will come around and lick it off.
She comes in her pyjamas, bare footed.
You like this. You always have.
This is Kodak perfect, a tinsel town television show scenario, Seventh Heaven excluded. But it’s not always like this. It’s not always a vacuum with just two and lazy mornings, sex in the sun and whispering behind closed doors.
It got nasty.
Real nasty.
“Who the fuck are you FUCKING!”
“You. Only two seconds ago.”
“You were thinking of someone else, weren’t you?”
“I don’t think doing that.”
“WHY DO YOU HATE ME?”
“WHY DO YOU HATE YOURSELF?”
“Get the FUCK out.”
“This is my house”
“Fine, I’ll leave. Just don’t expect me to come back”
“FINE”
She would always walk out. I would wait five minute and then follow. She would be crumpled on the sidewalk. Crying with car keys in her hand. She would look like she was dying.
She would always ask if I was going to leave her and I would always say no thinking that I would, thinking if this was the right time to say it.
“I will kill myself if you leave”
She could read thoughts.
I would pick her up off the pavement, the feeling of concrete on bare skin (how I felt), and carry her inside.
My Alarm clock reads midnight.
The next day it would be in pieces.
