The First Flush by Claus von Bohlen

The First Flush

‘Fuck, Dolly, what the fuck?’ Dino was angry. I guess he had a right to be, though I was surprised he was even awake. Earlier that night he’d said he was too tired to go out, so I’d gone with the girls – fully comp, obvi. I was now stumbling up the stairs, still feeling a bit sick. But even in that state I was aware that recently I’d been getting more and more drunk, returning home later and later. Not that it usually mattered – Dino would be asleep. In fact, sleep was something he did really well. It was almost impossible to wake him and he looked beautiful too – no dribbling or snoring or rolling around. Mum would say he slept like a baby. The one time I looked after a baby – Camille’s baby in fact – it slept for about five minutes between bouts of screaming, so I’m not sure the expression’s a good one. It’s irrelevant too, because when I got back Dino wasn’t asleep. He was in front of the cracked mirror in the bathroom, shaving. Dino scowled at me. I really needed to pee so I pulled down my pants and sat on the toilet. Dino shook his head and continued shaving. I stared at his crown where the hair had started to thin. There was the tinkling of urine in the toilet bowl and the scraping sandpaper sound of follicles being removed from his chin. ‘What’s the time?’ I asked. In fact I already knew but I needed to say something. ‘Six,’ replied Dino. ‘Six,’ I echoed, like I was digesting it. Actually six was late, even by my recent standards. ‘If it’s only six, then why are you up?’ I asked. Genuine question. Dino turned to look at me, anger giving way to resignation. ‘Fuck, Dolly,’ he sighed. ‘Why do you keep saying that, and why are you up?’ ‘I’ve got a shoot in Cape Town, remember? I have to be at Heathrow in an hour.’ ‘I thought that was next week,’ I lied. ‘Don’t lie, Dolly.’ I was going to lie some more, you know, to make it convincing. Put in a few details, like the show I’d cancelled because I thought he’d be home. That’s what I’d been doing in improv class, more or less. But then I just couldn’t be bothered. I flushed the toilet instead. Usually things only seem significant when you look back at them – it’s hard to tell at the time. But flushing the toilet at that moment felt significant even while I was doing it. I watched Dino wash the stubble and soap off the inside of the basin. He was very clean, I had to give him that. Strange, though, that men grow hair from their chins while at the same time losing it from

their heads. And amazing, really, how much stubble can grow in 24hrs. Or maybe it’s not that amazing. I guess at the end of the day that’s all we are, processes. Stuff goes in, gets changed into other kinds of stuff and then gets expelled. I’m not just thinking of shit. There’s hair and nails. And breath too. Or respiration, I should say. And babies, in Camille’s case, four months ago. And vomit, in my case, an hour ago. But I guess emotions aren’t processes. Right now I’m not so sure that they’re anything at all. I mean, the emotions I used to feel for Dino, well, I just don’t know that there’s anything left. When I first started seeing him they were so intense that I couldn’t eat. Actually that was pretty useful. I survived on Actimel – plain, strawberry is gross. I’d have at least three a day. I wonder if I’ll ever feel that way again. About a boy, I mean. I don’t think it’s possible. I was 17 and Dino was 32 and Italian and a photographer; I guess it never crossed my mind that things would not always be perfect. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget that now, not entirely. We’ve been together for four years. Dino has taken some great shots of me. He got me my first campaign. I love working with him because I feel totally relaxed. I think I used to love him most during a shoot. He’s in total control and I can see how much everyone admires him. I used to feel so proud to be his girlfriend. Wow that sounds cheesy, but it’s true. Dino’s also taken some great photos of me that no one else has seen. Not dirty ones, though we’ve done that too. I’m thinking of the moody ones. There’s one in black and white where I’ve just come out of the shower - my hair’s up and I’ve got a towel wrapped around me. I’m leaning against the window, smoking a cigarette and watching the rain on the window pane; you can see the shadows of the raindrops on my skin. It’s a beautiful photo. And there’s the one where we’re both drunk and raiding the fridge in the middle of the night. I have Actimel dribbling down my chin and I’m laughing at something gross Dino said. There’s no flash, I’m lit by the blue-ish light from the fridge. That’s a good photo too. It tells a story, I guess. Dino’s a really great photographer but I just don’t have fun with him anymore. We’re not interested in the same things. In fact, Dino’s not interested in anything he doesn’t already know. I’m like: ‘Dino, fashion is great and your photos are beautiful, but I mean, come on.’ And he’s like: ‘What the fuck, Dolly?’