Ghost Fish

The neighbour kicks off his sandals and swipes his bare feet on the mat, three times each, one foot and then the other. Eddie is impressed; he is losing the battle with sand. Despite his best efforts it gets in everywhere – the spines of his books, the bottom of the cutlery drawer. He wakes most nights from gritty dreams and has to stand in the dark shaking out the sheets. The neighbour follows him into the living room where they both hesitate in front of the small sofa. Eddie gestures for him to sit down and then picks a cushion from the sofa and sits on the tile floor with his back against the wall. The neighbour clasps and unclasps his hands, clears his throat and then begins to talk in Creole.

Carren with a 'C'

That night, staring into the dark, I noticed that I could see the edges of the sockets of my eyes. It was like looking through binoculars; as if I had shrivelled inside my shell. He was there, beside me, and though I knew that he was breathing there was a little wish, like a burr in my heart, that meant I couldn’t hear it. I knew I couldn’t lie there any longer and so I climbed out of bed and went into the living room. I was looking for somewhere else to be but the dog was on the sofa, his ear folded awkwardly against the cushion. The wet shine of his nose and the creases around his eyes made it impossible for me to move him. In the end I slept in the bath which was surprisingly uncomfortable for something designed to hold a human body.

No Dancing Allowed

Last night I did a new etching. I’d been sitting at my kitchen table leafing through a book of Edward Hopper paintings, my fingers through the handle of a coffee mug, the remnants of the paper spread out around me. The light faded and I plugged in a lamp, opened my sketchbook to a new page and drew the pub at the end of my street. The green one. With the mosaic tiled floor and unmatched tables and chairs. The smooth dark wood and tea light candles on the tables. You must remember it. It’s still the same, well no, it’s less busy. A new one has opened up across the road.

The Saturday Man

The kitchen door slams closed behind her and Amanda leans heavily against the white washed brick of the courtyard wall. It’s already gone ten o’clock but the concrete is still damp with dew. The café is full of the breakfast bunch: today mostly broad-shouldered railway workers in their luminous orange trousers and muddy black boots. They trail dirt across the linoleum tiles and sling their thick arms over the backs of the chairs, fingers poised to brush against her thigh. There is a smear of egg on the back of her hand and so she wipes it across her apron before reaching into her pocket for a cigarette. The craving for nicotine doesn’t usually come this early in the morning. She strikes a match and inhales deeply, thinking again of the man at the window table, who looks so like her father. His silk grey hair, the long thin, washed-white fingers of a pathologist.

Michael’s Hand

We are talking about the night that Michael set his hand on fire when he comes over to say “Hello”. We are even sitting at our old-favourite table in the very far corner of the bar against the windows. Jenna has the view out across the room, Emmie is on the edge to let her smoke drift out and me, I’m facing them. Three girls at a square table, a bottle of red wine in the middle.

Enough

Catherine in her flat house shoes, watch swinging at her wrist, hair in a bun tighter than knitting climbs the stairs again, feet heavy with reluctance, fingers gripping the polished handrail, potato-mud beneath her nails, pill of anger on her tongue. Her tea sits cooling on the kitchen counter.

Her father waits white as the sheets, one thin claw above the covers, gummy eyed, smells of old breath and empty cupboards, coughs stains onto the sheets.

My Inadequate Hair

“If only,” he said, “you had curly hair.” We were lying on a blanket in the sun, in the park. The newspapers were heaped at our feet. I had my head in his lap and he was pressing his fingers into my scalp, rubbing in small tight circles. “Oh well,” I thought. It had been fun.