BY LUCIE BRITSCH
I take things
Things that aren’t mine
Why would I take my own things?
Now that’s messed up
Who does that?
Probably some stupid fuck
They have a word for it
Klep toe mane ee ya
I think the Kardashians have something to do with it
I don’t take valuable things, or shoplift; I just take things that catch my eye
Like a magpie I guess
But I’ve never seen one
Or they’re just not shopping where I shop
Although I don’t like when people say ooh so and so is like a hawk, like a fox, like a rabbit
It’s never complimentary
You’re basically saying they’re a dirty animal
They’re never saying you have like really soft hair or nice teeth
But I guess I do have a magpie eye
Just the one
The other one I need for watching stuff on my phone and making sure I don’t walk into walls
Only it doesn’t have to be shiny things I take
I once took some fancy cheese in the shape of a heart
It just has to be pretty things then, to me anyway
I started doing it when I was little
I would take things from friend’s houses
Only small things
A porcelain thimble
I couldn’t even tell you what a thimble is, even now
The name is giving me no clue
I’m guessing it’s something from the old days when they didn’t have TV
Who has thimbles?
People in fairy tales and old ladies that’s who
So I guess I do know more about them than I thought
I’m full of surprises
I only take things that can easily be taken
I tut at people trying to take cars
Or dogs
I like things that are quiet
You won’t catch me making the dick move of trying to steal me a bell
I take things that won’t be missed
Things that fit in the warm round of my palm and then fit safely in my pocket
Sometimes I have concealed things in my sock
That’s my signature move so don’t go stealing it
Never my bra though
But I’m only young
Give me time and cleavage
Please god give me cleavage
I once heard of a lady that concealed things in her hair
She’s my hero
Like most people like me I like the feeling
I wish I liked the feeling of someone’s hand in mine
Or a summers breeze on my skin
Or a warm bubble bath
Stuff other people seem to get off on
But I like the feeling of thieving
I want to steal that for a t shirt some day
When I go straight
When I have my cleavage and better things to do
But for now it’s about the feeling
The feeling of seeing something I want and the art of how to obtain it
Because it is an art
I’ve seen other people, inexperienced people, chancers, try and take things and I have watched them epically fail
They shake, they sweat, they fumble, and they don’t have the speed, the skill
And they always chicken out or get caught
I never wanted sex the way I wanted my friend mums thimble with a Shire horse on it.
The horse was standing in a meadow with tiny buttercups
I liked to think it was delicately hand painted by a jolly old lady in a barn somewhere
Definitely not made in China
I don’t want that shit
She may or may not have also churned butter
The friend’s mother had a tiny hand bell with a dairy maid on it too but I’ve told you my strict no bells policy
Maybe one day I would be skilled enough to know how to do the whole bell or dog thing but for now I was happy with my small quiet tat
Because people must have stolen bells
I’m sure someone tried to steal the liberty bell at some point
Everything has been stolen at some point
On entering a room then my eyes will scour the surroundings for possible treasure
Like a greedy child always looking for something to shove in their face
My pockets were hungry
Tidy homes were no fun
And later, as a gown up, my time at minimalist friends homes were fruitless
Because I didn’t grow out of it by the way
This isn’t a story or redemption
I dreamed that Fagin was my father
When my peers were dreaming of Jon Travolta I longed to wake up soot smudged
Not dripping in glitter and Hollywood glamour
I would have made a fabulous pick pocket with the right training and jaunty music
These are not normal aspirations for a middle class girl from a good family
It was at school that I first found another like me
You would think that a kindred spirit or fellow sufferer, however you see it, would be a comfort
But no
My magpie eye and dickens fingers were my own private Idaho
No one new because if they did they would throw me in jail or worse, make me get therapy
Have you seen a therapist’s office? It’s all books and couches
There is nothing worth stealing!
A wilting pot plant is not enough to get me there
How could I possible explain the power of pretty to someone that wears pant suits?
How some things are just so wonderful that I need them near me?
That I need to touch them, to hold them, to make them mine.
Have they not seen Lord of the rings?
I have not seen Lord of the rings
But not just the sparkly, shiny obviously pretty things, things that have something else, the French seem to get it with their je ne sai quoi.
So there he was then, another, like me
Only boy shaped
And he had wanted to steal me from the start
Because he thought I was pretty
Only I was still waiting on that cleavage and was still in that mind set that boy shaped meant stupid shaped
Ok so I still think that to some degree
I mostly didn’t want the competition
But he did because he was a boy and annoying
So we spent the next few years trying to outdo each other
Well he mostly tried to get in my pants and I mostly told him where to go
On leaving a room he would show me what he had in his pocket
Followed by a wink
I would stick my tongue out
I wouldn’t show him mine
Not yet
But he wore me down
Like men do
I know that now
And I know now that I am considered pretty to some
A thing to posess
I eventually gave in to him because I am weak but mostly because I am a kleptomaniac and not even for good shit but shit like thimbles and old lady junk so I didn’t have many options
So we joined forces
Shared our treasures
He didn’t even dis my thimbles, or worse ask what they were for and I would have to tell him about the old lady and the butter churning and hope it distracted him enough that he forgot about what thimbles were actually for or failing that show him what I had in my bra because the cleavage did come despite all the stealing so god works in very mysterious ways
So we shared our treasures and then kisses and then bodies and eventually a poky apartment with leaky pipes
No one else would understand we told each other but also no one else understood, least of all his mother who had hoped he would share a pokey apartment with a lawyer and not a strange girl who collected thimbles
We stayed together for several years
Both trying to go straight at different times
Both sabotaging the other
Because then what?
What were we?
Then one night it came to me
It had come to him too
I crept into the kitchen
Let me fingers find a spoon
One he had stolen from a friend’s wedding
I had only taken his keys that night
When I learned he liked to drink
I crept back to where he was sleeping
And stole his heart
He didn’t stir
Or splutter
It’s yours anyway he said
So you don’t win
I cried then
Before taking his wallet and walking out
British born with Germanic roots (very different from Jamaican roots in the fun stakes) Lucie Britsch's writing career peaked when she was a runner up in a poopscoop slogan contest as a child. She has been writing crap ever since. A liberal arts grad with a drummer boyfriend she has set herself up for a long career in failing but is the punch line to many a joke. Swings roundabouts. She lives in the middle of England with her more successful boyfriend on their imaginary farm where she is not writing 3 novels but enjoys procrastinating and collecting imaginary eggs.
She has just had her first pieces accepted by a lit mag and hopes that will kickstart her writing career.