She can hear them next door talking about chairs, belts and bins. Plastic things, snorks-snarks, crushed or expired. The size of them! He was never one for the confessional tone. Wouldn’t mind joining them for a puff on that cigar, though…
He called me a skrimp. What was I supposed to do, leave them to rot? I can’t waste food. Well, somebody’s got to peel them, now. Ah ah ah. Eyes up from the sink: oh, that cat again. The chairs make a sublime upside-down sculpture (after Goretti). Behind them by the shrubs, a magpie is picking at the golden gnomes, pic pic pic pic pic pic.
Where so is that-just blocked it. Quick swipe down the apron, a long piece of cotton with one paisley pocket. It feels rough and comforting at the same time, oddly. Her mother might have approved. Am I supposed to remember her middle name, now?
Russia’s losing: wishful thinking, mate. How do you go from pavement to cobblestones… Her phone pings. Oh no, the wifi is down again. Poigne to poignant. Why has a fist got to be vulnerable? Is a stick dangerous per se? Breathes, then a long sigh. Stay in your body. It’s working. A maggot writhing right there in the core… straight for the compost bin. She bats the fruit flies away. It’s January, little bastards, come on!
The apple skin is sticky and muddy, with bits of grass stuck, a wet feel to the palm and a long peel for the compost. A loud yawn. It’s like being submerged in the water for too long. I bet I am stronger than them, who kowtow to their Anglophone masters. Next thing you know, they’ll be parrots for the executions.
Her son leans into the kitchen, his braids’ sheen caught in the last sunshine. Awright? I didn’t hear you come in, my love. Bois de l’eau. Nah. Y’a une baguette pour toi, là. Where? She points to the kitchen counter. Cheers, Jeff. Don’t call me Jeff, I’m your Mum! Awright, Frank! She turns to him with a smile, how’s the knee today? but he’s already gone.
My back hurts. I can’t believe I used to smoke Cubans. Christ. She is cold now, and in need of skin for the night. Well, everything is running… Shiskverbia is in the heart. You could see the gifts of pumpkins and juices if you tried.
She can still make out a deflated ball by the quince tree. The blue tits will need feeding tomorrow. Again. They are laughing next door, talking about Baghat now, lazier than the floor. The smell of tobacco drifts into the kitchen. One day I’ll go back to Ulysses and finish that bloody book, I swear.
Melisande Fitzsimons
Picture Rupert Loydell
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