Bar

Dumped. On the edge of Leeds, just a stone’s-throw-away from dead-end-alley which she teeters down in her six-inch heels and fake furs ‘bloody useless’ against brutish winds. She’s feeling out-of-sorts.

The doorman dressed in his best, draws back from the devilish cold as our blue lady enters and sheds off her skins into the closet. She rouges her lips then click-clacks across marble to sit high at the bar and fiddle fingers around rings, till the man unhangs a polished glass on display and swills in a G&T to slide over. Another double, he positions by her elbow and jerks his thumb at a smoking silhouette in a hat. She keeps her bright eyes away from rebel’s corner, but quaffs a hand under her hair, swivels her twizzler to excite bubbles to fizz in her gin and wonders where a warm taxi might take her as she sips her pick-me-up.

Different Strokes
The dried meat hung next to her. Speckles of brown and red pricked its surface. Had she been vegetarian, before this? She needed to get out of the room. Shiny floors stared up at her, daring her to try. On her plate sat three tired tomatoes. She rolled them around as if that might prompt her disobedient tongue to curl into the right shape for words.
   Red-circle-no. Close enough. She hated the things.
   A girl in starched white leant over her. ‘In we pop, Alison’. One tomato was spooned into a space on her face. She tried to chew.
   In the bed opposite, a man as old as her father smiled with one side of his mouth. She glanced back at the meat to her right with its five familiar fingers.
   I’m only half here.
   ‘Yes, lovely tomatoes,’ said the girl as she stroked away a trickle of escaping saliva.

Bound in Smoke
Blackened branches, white with ash at the ends, dumped on the patio when we were done prodding. Embers gagging on the lack of oxygen after hours of burning in our makeshift back garden barbecue: an oversized tin can so charred we could only remember it was once for olives.
   Flaky ash lying on the window sill and the seats we had made on stacked breeze blocks and an empty blue plastic milk bottle crate. Debris so integral to our garden life we'd forgotten any urge we had, on moving in, to buy real outdoor furniture.
   Leaning in against the back door in the light from the kitchen, my spiral bound notepad, biro tucked through the wire.
   “Alright?” His eyes were blazing clear.
   The things we had written. Words and thoughts scorched and bound in the smoke.
   “Yeah. You?”
   “Yeah.” We meant it, no need to say more.

New Math

Negotiating the cafeteria was what Square Root dreaded most about her first day at Weirdly Q. Showoff Performing Arts School. A clattering symphony of equations and functions buffeted her ears. With fours and nines piled on her lunch tray, she searched for an empty seat.

Square Root set down her tray at the logarithms’ table. “Oh please,” a log sighed. “This table is for high end computations. You need to sit with the babies at the fractions table.”

At the fractions table, everyone had Spongebob lunchboxes. And the chairs were too small. Not for her. All the forces at the Newtonian mechanics table wore velocity letter jackets. They grunted and glared when Square Root passed.

A dotted i waved her over. “What are you guys? Apple products?” Square Root asked.

“Nah. We’re imaginary numbers. The jocks and the cool kids won’t hang out with us, either.”

The Definition of Us

Cast. verb
direct one’s eyes at someone
(see Object of Desire, specifically, You)
Caste. noun
class of people with exclusive privileges
(see Social Status; Father’s Business Partner)
Cast. verb
shape a substance by pouring it into a mold
(see Arranged Marriage, Heterosexuality)
Castigate. verb
punish
(see Name-Calling; Compliance by Force)
Cast. verb
shed skin in the process of maturation
(see Personal Growth; Me)
 
Castaway. noun
person rejected from society
(see Disownment; Choices)
Cast. verb
let down an anchor
(see Stand My Ground)
Castle. noun
large building fortified against assault
(see Walls I Can Build; Strength)
Cast. noun
actors in a play
(see You and Me; Two-Woman Show)

My Husband

I took husband and put him in a jar. I placed him between the sugar and tea. He looked good there, with his permanent three day beard and birdnest hair. And grimace.
 
I open the jar on Sundays only, when he's well-rested and he won't shout at me like a savage. I take him to the pub. We stroll in the park. Stroke a puppy. I kiss him, he's happy. We stare at the lake. Feed the ducks. I tell him the plan and he nods. I guide him into bed. He's a good boy. We hold hands and watch the sunset.
 
The truth is I can't open the jar. I've tried everything, knives, spoons, gripping with both hands. 'I can't open it from the inside,' he tells me. I shrug. Don't worry, one day we'll have everything worked out.

Mondays

On Monday, John ate supermarket Sushi and remembered touring Japan with the band.  From 12 to 1, before the mid afternoon rush, John picked at Chumaki rolls, rode bullet trains from one place to the next.

Tuesday, John loosened and tightened the nut holding his bike seat firm, to lift it. An incorrectly positioned saddle often leads to under extension during peddling, resulting in knee ache.
 
On Wednesday, he tried to catch an eye, any.
 
Thursday, so little happened. 
 
On Friday, John swam in clear Icelandic water, warm from the tips of his ears down to the mud through his toes.

Saturday John got drunk and messaged old friends, then blocked their numbers before they could reply. 
 
On Sunday, John wrote letters to himself then went to bed refreshed long before the news began.

To end, John marked off each day until the letters arrived, dropping through the letterbox like amber leaves. 

Trinkets
The jewellery rested on a bed of soft, burgundy velvet, cushioned against any mishap, coddled in the hand-made wooden box.
 
He loved to stroke specific pieces: the heart shaped earrings; a mood ring that always proclaimed him 'calm'; an eternity ring, so well-worn the metal had become sharp enough to slice through skin.
 
He held the silver bracelet, his first and favourite trinket. He ran his fingers along the raised edge of the inscription: For Mum – Love, Jim.
 
He remembered the false, twisted smile on her thin lips the night he gave it to her. He remembered the night he cut it off, watched the smile disappear, listened to her screams. He remembered how good it felt, how, at last, she had set him on his true path.
 
Memories are ephemeral but mementos are solid, giving him the connection he needs. They make everything worthwhile. Everything For Mum - Love, Jim.

A Problem of Scale

The class after PE was Maths, the numbers big enough for him to hide at the back and rub at his scalp in the mistaken belief that he could get rid of the dandruff flakes in that forty minute period. But 800,000 dead cells for every square centimetre of scalp would not be so easily managed.

Until now his adolescent changes had been predictable and therefore tolerable. But why had no one told him about this?

And then the cringing realisation; the new girl was looking straight at him, round-eyed and open-mouthed. Some time later, she would tell him that it was a ‘wondrous sight’, ‘like shaking up and watching one of those glass snow-storm ornaments’.

The next day, she wordlessly handed him a bottle of coal-tar shampoo and he caught her faintly medicated scent. Years later, he still found it more alluring than any number of Chanels.

 Life in the No Flex Zone
Esmeralda stores her jewelry in a box on the high closet shelf, trades her paisley sundress for a brown shroud, ties the kerchief tight around illegal curls. Tuesday is shopping day.
    She could take the steps two at a time, slide down the banister into the bed where floral rainbows used to grow, but a soldier stands across the way, watching, waiting.
    Cans line the market shelves, black writing on white paper. Plain. Uniform. Esmeralda fills her basket with the week's rations, shows her card to a drab-dressed checkout girl.
    "Better tuck that back in", the girl says, points to Esmeralda's temple. She does not smile. Smiling makes you look pretty, stand out. Smiling is a flex. Smiling gets you a warning.
    Esmeralda walks back to her house, locks the door, trades the brown shroud for a bright floral, lets her curls free, pretends the soldiers aren't waiting outside. Watching.