''I’ve got to get her back, you listening? I’ve got to get her back!’’
My consciousness flickers, becoming momentarily aware I’m being spoken to, so I mumble threatening obscenities, exerting as little energy as possible in hope of returning back to sleep.
My roommate Karl begins to irritate me further, ''Mate, I saw Lorna, walking with some dirty ass cockroach of a guy, no way can she be seeing him, has to be her friend!''
''Your attempts will be all in vain, I’ve heard some guy from Oxford got his hands on her during the summer, it’s probably the cockroach you’re speaking of.'' I was never one to beat around the bush.
''Pffff, she loved me, and I didn’t finish with her in a nasty way, I never said anything bad to her'' Karl protested, but his voiced sounded fairly uncertain.
''It’s not what you say, it’s what you do that can hurt Karl.'' I stared at him with one eye, whilst my other tried to preserve sleep, but he just kept silent, letting his reflective grimace tell me to shut up. Which pleased me fine.
Karl had been seeing Lorna for most of the second year at uni, but broke it off when she started getting clingy. They didn’t match anyhow, Karl was an arty guy, cigarette always flapping from his bottom lip, and he talked about art like the media talked about celebrity. And he constantly wore yesterday’s clothes. Not that he was lazy, but rather, maintaining personal hygiene came far down on the list. Whereas Lorna, I saw as being a square, a pretty one though.
I met Karl, in our first year of uni, we had both joined the Literature society, and that’s where he met Lorna too. I remembered him because he called me Michael straight after I had told him my name was Miguel. I tried to have a conversation with Lorna that same day too, about poetry, I shared my liking for Ginsberg, and she replied that his political and social voice was vulgar. I gritted my teeth at that pompous, little remark. And when she gushed about Sylvia Plath I groaned,
''I got half way through that, and went looking for a rope and stairs'' which surprisingly didn’t go down well. I remembered her glass black eyes narrowed. I smiled.
When I thought of Karl and Lorna, it was difficult for me not to refer to the Oedipus complex; she was always mothering him, and he lapped it up like an impressionable foetus. Cleaning up after him, blowing crumbs off his face more than kisses, telling him the do's and don’ts of table etiquette. She fed him like he was foie gras about to be splattered on a Parisian plate. She had a marvellous way for making a capable adult look embarrassingly incapable, so when I came into the room one time and saw her feeding him nipple shaped strawberries, I left bemused. That may explain why he wants her back, there would be no dirty washing crammed under the bed, less takeaways, less questionable smells, and more finger fed food.
Throughout the first year, I didn’t really connect with any girls, I was quite satisfied simply admiring their hypnotically, gyrating buttocks glide past me, but saw few faces I wanted to talk to. It’s not often I’ll talk to a girl first, unless I’m really attracted to her. And in the second year, I was too busy scrambling for good grades. But now in my third year, I think I deserve a little light relief amongst all the books, so I’m open to suggestions. Got to try a little I guess.
I picked up the phone and dialled Lorna. Twirling my fingers around the cord.