2.
Tom is late, saying, “I always feel like drinking when I’m
with you.” Viv opens a bottle of red she was given at
Christmas and runs two dusty wine glasses under a tap. The
water creates a pale circle of dirt in the bottom of the
glasses and she dries them with the corner of a tea towel.
Tom hands her a package, saying “open it now”, and she
pulls a rhinoceros foot from blue tissue paper. “I found it in
a small antique shop,” he laughs, sipping the cabernet
sauvignon doubtfully. She asks how long he’ll stay and he
says, “a week, assuming that’s all right with you”—sipping
again, like a bird dipping its beak into a Serengeti pool.
“The black rhinos are gone,” she says abstractly as he
positions the foot on the mantelpiece above the fire.
CLOUDS IN MY COFFEE
The barista serves lattes and hers has a white swan floating on the
surface, its neck curling toward the mug’s handle like a query. His
coffee is decorated with a circle, like a target, and as he stirs, the
bullseye momentarily resembles a heart. Her swan dissolves into
cirrus clouds. He’s talking about the loss of businesses in the
pandemic and the doubtful health of his aged cat. He reads
subtitles on the television above her head, complaining about bad
song lyrics and an ad for home gyms. The waitress brings Black
Forest cake and she thinks how slowly they used to eat the kirsch-
soaked cherries. The barista brings him a coffee decorated with a
Dali moustache as customers order fruit-and-vegetable juices with
improbable names. Swathes of light hit the tabletop. He’s digging
blueberries from his fruit salad and though he says he likes the
yoghurt, she knows it’s too sweet for him. His eyes wander into
her words and their identities stutter. A Carly Simon song begins.
SUBURBAN SUITE
She likes the fluorescent lighting, there’s nowhere to hide
in its glare. Her skin is blue stripes with a yellow bruise on
the underside of her arm in the shape of a bass clef, or
comma. The trolley is tangled up with others in long rows
like train carriages. They rattle as she takes the plastic
token from her pocket to free one, its long chain hanging
from the red plastic handle. She saves the fruit and
vegetable section for last. She likes the bright yellow
lemons and waxy habaneros sitting atop her frozen meals
and microwavable brown rice. Today, the lemons are larger
than she’s ever seen, and the habaneros bulge misshapenly.
She puts twelve of each into the trolley, laughing at the
expression of the woman behind her in the queue. “You’ll
explode,” the woman says. “Habaneros are good on water
crackers with boiled egg,” shesays, but keeps to herself the
small snap-lock bag with chopped habanero in her
handbag—for all of those bland moments dished up on
large white plates. “And the lemons are for preserving in
jars as gifts.” She thinks of yellow mouth-filling slices, and
of a nestling glass of wine; of her lover’s mouth tasting of
sour heat.