Strange things happen

Nine o’clock at night he comes to the door. Nine o’clock at night. Nine o’clock, I ask you. I tell you, he did. To the door. At nine. What sort of time? What sort of hour? What sort of time and hour do you call this? He knocks. I answer. We stand staring at each other for minutes on end. Minutes that only last a matter of seconds. Because we are in a movie. Or a dream. Or a timeslip. I am fuzzy, you see. Bleary. Gone. I left some minutes ago, going that way into a wall. He is covered in sand. Covered in sand and panting. Panting. Tongue, put it away. Nasty piece of meat. He is going to faint. Don’t faint on my doorstep, you bastard. You fucking sand-covered bastard. Don’t faint. Stand upright. Stand bloody bolt upright and tell me. Look me in the eye and tell me what you’re doing here. He tells me what he’s doing here. He tells me that he has walked through the desert to get here. I ask him what desert. There is no desert around here, I tell him. Only a strange dark common where people do unspeakable things to each other after dark, jog in the mornings and walk their unspeakable dogs during the overcast afternoons. But he is adamant. A desert, he says. He tells me about the desert. He has walked through it. I tell him that he has said that already. He tells me that he has walked a long way through the desert. That he needed to get here to tell me that he had walked through the desert. That’s all. The desert. He walked it. Big deal. Big fucking deal. It is a big deal, he says. He walked through the desert because he needed to tell me that the desert was not how it was. How it should be. I raise a quizzical eyebrow. He asks what’s wrong with my eye. Ignore him. Tell me. The desert, he says. The desert has turned monochrome. Black and white. It’s transformed itself into a nineteen eighties Athena-style poster. Except not as stylish. Or interesting. Very dull. Very black. And white. And grey. Lots of sand. But grey sand. Grey sand everywhere. He tells me this. He tells me that he has sand between his toes. In his mouth. In his armpits. In his hair. Around his neck. Coating the sweaty skin of his testicles. I don’t say anything. I don’t want to know. Sand is sand is sand. Grey, brown, beige or yellow. Sand is just so much sand. Sand. Time’s running out. Sand, he says. Time’s running out, I say. Sand, he says. Sand does that. It runs out, like time. Time, I say. Time. Time. Time. I slam the door on him. He knocks. I open it. He berates me for not asking about the sand. The grey sand, he says. Sand doesn’t interest me, I reply. Not much of interest in sand. That’s bad luck, he says. Bad fucking luck. He pushes past me. He is carrying a sack over his shoulder. I don’t know why I didn’t notice the sack. Brown sack. Hessian. Maybe I am blind. Or fuzzy. Or bleary. Or gone. Maybe I walked into a wall and became a wall. I don’t know. He heaves the sack up and over. Up and over. Up and over and over and up. Back up. Back up a moment. Back again. He tips the black and white and grey sand all over my floor. The carpet is carpeted. Monochrome. He is monochrome. Underfoot is monochrome. Everything is monochrome. I am in a monochrome dust cloud. I have become so much monochrome. He turns to me. I told you, he says. I told you that I came to tell you. Now I have told you. I am going now. Monochrome, he says. Everything is monochrome. You are monochrome too. I am going now. Job done. Mission accomplished. He goes. He gently closes the door behind him. I stand in my monochrome home with my monochrome walls and my monochrome floor and my monochrome furniture and my monochrome clothes and my monochrome skin. I feel black and white and grey. All over. I feel all over. That’s all over. All over now. Strange things happen. Strange things. They happen. They just happen elsewhere. That’s all. It’s happening elsewhere. Out of here. Over there. Somewhere. Not here. Here it’s just monochrome. Too monochrome. Monochrome. Black and white and grey. What colour are you?