I don’t even like balloons. I loathe them. I am allergic to their powdery edge. I gag at the thought of the smell of them. My ears start to bleed when I hear that pitching squeak. But he likes balloons you see. And I like him.
Oh diary… If only he would notice me. My full red lips. My long legs. My half-sphere breasts. My realistic hair. If only he could see me as more than air and plastic.
I know they are all looking at me, laughing at me, these rubber merchants. I know they think that I am no better than their novelty items. I am a woman though. I know that. If you hold me, do I not shiver. If you ignore me, do I not mourn. If you cut me, will I not puncture and die.
The beat off, my heart, the beat off. The voice lingers behind the beat. The words stutter slowly to life. The music haunts the conference centre and my love haunts me.
I wait for him in hotel lobbies and wedding parlours. I am the product of a best man’s cruel comedy, brought out from under the top table, the pretend affair of a faithful man. I sit in a box with a pair of patent leather shoes and a once-worn bow tie.
One night he came home late from the balloon factory and took the box down from the wardrobe. She was out. I don’t know where. He filled me with his breath, his life, and looked at me sadly. Then he shook his head and let the air flow back out of me.
For a few seconds I could taste the drink on his breath. I could feel the electricity of his touch as he ran a finger up my thigh searching for the nozzle.
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