Debbie Harry and a Lamp.
The only light entering my bedroom shines on a dust-covered empty bottle of Lacoste aftershave, sitting on top cardboard packaging of my old Lenovo laptop. A June 24th, 2016 issue of The Mirror is tucked behind them, against the wall. Nothing special about that day, beyond the fact it was the last time I bought a newspaper. The curtains are almost never open and don't stretch all the way to the left, otherwise the dim would triumph completely. A Marks & Spencers suit jacket hangs from my wardrobe, diverting my focus from the aftershave. I wore the suit once to my dads funeral and lost the trousers, some time and some place since then. I didn't want to wear a suit that day because I didn't want to be there to begin with. I reluctantly went because I didn't want to embarrass mam by making a self-absorbed, dramatic absence. I wanted to be with my dad but be wherever he was , not where his lifeless body was. Neither the cardboard nor suit enter my consciousness muc...