I tore my hamstring last week. I can’t run, so all I can do is sit around and watch people do things. Taut joggers pounding flesh on park pathways. Children hopscotching in apartment block car-spots. People in shorts and singlets doing things.
Sitting on this bench in the afternoon I stretch my leg and feel the pull, the swell, the fabric on skin.
Man, I’m happy. I’m so happy I can’t take it. I’m used to being sad and angry and grumpy and tired and apathetic and bored. Now I’m happy and it’s fucking weird. People say stupid things and I smile, forget about it, be happy. I can’t get work done because I can’t think – all I can do is happiness. Everything seems little and wonderful and all I want to do is sit in the sun and see people smiling, laughing, waving to each other excitedly. Children marvelling, mothers marvelling over their children’s marvels. I can’t hear them but I imagine.
“What’s that, mum?”
“It’s called a merry-go-round, honey.”
“What do you do with it?”
“You sit on the edge, and your friend spins you. Or you can stand and your friend spins you. Or you can spin yourself. Then you spin them. You spin, darling.“
So they leave hours later and I amble over to the merry-go-round, hands pinched against the metal grips, and start spinning. I climb on, lay flat on my back and close my eyes, spinning. [“Summer In The City.”]