Friday One Delusion

It is primal. It’s like a smell, I say when she asks whether I have yet found out what it is like.

I dive into it with pleasure, the conversation, and stop checking for signs.

It isn’t uncomfortable, the silence, but rather a marker of time.

It isn’t often I don’t think about how I would like to be at home instead, I tell Josephine, who appears on the seat next to me.

Yes, we are all under the thrall of this small creature, the Lady of Shalott, she says, nodding at the woman opposite me.

But I want to weave a magical web, too! I exclaim, and Josephine laughs a little, then grows serious.

But isn’t that exactly what you are doing, dear? The woman opposite you? Mere reflection of your own desires.

“Stars, hide your fires/Let not light see my black and deep desires”, I quote. Is it like Plato’s cave?

Kind of, I guess, Josephine says.

But what about cutting the thread? Surely she must need my help if she has an acute thread-cutting need?

No, dear. Should the need to cut the thread arise, she has those three crazy girls hiding in the cupboard all ready for action. So, love is like a smell, eh? Not like a fragrance? Not like a rose?

No, Josephine. It is more intense. Hence a smell. You wouldn’t understand.

For once I try to not make light of the situation, knowing I have hurt the ghost’s feelings, but only nod to her, Josephine, thus giving a permission to leave us.

So, do you enjoy crafts? I ask the woman opposite me. Weaving?

I don’t know, not especially. Shouldn’t I be asking you that question?

What? Why?

Because you are obviously into it, making that gorgeous quilt.

Because I am – ?

Then I see it, in my lap, the huge tapestry consisting of the goings-on of the street behind me, the people passing by, the glass of wine I just had, my girlfriends, my lover, with even his cinnamon smell appliqued on top of some decorative flowers. Slowly I lift my head from the web to face her, unbelieving, but instead of another woman, it is just my own face, wide-eyed, reflected in the fucking mirror.

Quote from Macbeth