Lilian came to London dreaming that the streets were paved with gold, now her lungs rattle under the pressure of too many cigarettes. Tonight is her last night in London, by the morning she will be with her dead lover. She is leaving through choice, before they put her onto a machine or even worse into a home. As she smokes her cigarettes she dreams of her death away from the city, away from the box she lives in, away from her wheezing body. As she smokes she closes her eyes to the pains in her chest. She knows she shouldn’t as her lungs are beginning to constrict, every breath now is difficult and walking is becoming even harder but Lilian is seventy five and alone and they are her habit, her treats, her consolation. And so as she waits for the kettle to boil, she pulls the gold packet from her dressing gown pocket, the lighter from its place on the shelf by the tea caddy and lights a cigarette. She coughs and it disgusts her the way the phlegm rattles. She is coughing so hard that she can no longer enjoy it, her whole body is convulsing and she drops her cigarette burning a hole in her jade, silk dressing gown. She begins to cry hard, desperate tears as the cigarette lies smoking on the floor.
“It’s only a hole” he would have said , “ no harm done, no point crying over things that don’t matter”.
Everything matters to Lilian now. Every stick of furniture, every shoe and stocking reminds her of the past, she is living in her own museum and this dressing gown is catalogued under a time when she was happy.
“It’s only a hole” he would have said , “ no harm done, no point crying over things that don’t matter”.
Everything matters to Lilian now. Every stick of furniture, every shoe and stocking reminds her of the past, she is living in her own museum and this dressing gown is catalogued under a time when she was happy.
