MANBOY

Black suit and two stiff new shoed feet

White shirt neck rimmed itchy red

New clothes for the living and the dead

In the midday chiming clock hallway I stood

Cold fear of my waxy yellow coffined father in the next room

“Only the good die young” said old Uncle John

Red-eyed, nodding I affirmed his bad long life

“New man of the house! ” my remaining young years gone with a manly backslap.

Man boy I was then at thirteen years

Foal legged in deep pocket trousers

Blue school inked fingers white knuckling my fathers pine shape above my head

Salty snot tears in my mouth

Great weight on my shoulders

Bleeding bitten lip concentration to keep in stepping time

Blurry view of black suited broad backs before and behind me.

 

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SUDDENLY SINGLE 

 

Clare pulled her hair back into a tight ponytail and scrutinised her face in the magnifying mirror again .She patted little beige dots of concealer under each eye and smeared them on top of the black circles that had appeared since the weekend. Her eyes were still bloodshot and puffy from all her crying and there would be no concealing that.

 In faking a heavy head cold quite convincingly by phone to work earlier on she had bought herself a few more days reprieve, thank God.

Coughing and sniffling into the mouthpiece she had given the impression her germs were highly contagious, so had stopped people calling in to visit her.If she were going to fall to pieces, would prefer to do so alone. Since Sunday, she had left the phone unplugged, only later to claim she had been sleeping. The reality being she had been curled up in bed surrounded by little hard balls of used tissues.

Mark had sent her a few text messages. He knew better than to phone. “How r u?” “we need to talk” each one ending with that stupid little sad face logo he did when trying to win her over. Clare couldn’t bear to look at his messages so turned her mobile off too.

She didn’t know how she felt about him now. Not after the weekend. It was like that film “Sleeping with the Enemy” or maybe she meant “Jagged Edge”. She thought. Anyway, the one where you loved this person to discover they were evil or psycho or both. She shuddered and rubbed her temples. Her head hurt from circular thinking and the replaying of Saturday’s awful scenes. Padding out to the kitchen in her socks, pyjama bottoms and t shirt worn since Saturday, Clare opened the fridge. There was nothing edible there, only a tomato, two yoghurts a dribble of milk. Taking the milk, she went to make a cup of tea and saw the mug still in the sink. The scarlet lipstick ring was still on the rim and the sight of it combined with hunger, made Clare run to the bathroom and throw up.

The Keane women had a history of weak stomachs in times of trauma. Clare lay on the sofa and pulled a blanket over her. Daytime television droned from the corner, but for once she was glad of the inane chatter and superficial subject matter. The presenters felt like friends and reassured her nothing was more serious than the length of the summers hemlines. Clare felt a creeping uneasiness moving through her while in her blanket cocoon.

Why hadn’t she noticed things weren’t right with Mark this past while? They had been together nearly four years, living together for two. Something she knew she wanted more than he did. “Why should we rent two apartments? when we could buy a house for the same amount?” she’d say. “Sure we spend all our time in yours or my place anyway!” Clare knew it made financial sense, and to her way of thinking it was the natural order of things.

Love, marriage, family, happy ever after. Finding love was the hardest part, but for the past four years Clare honestly thought she had. Thinking back, there was nothing he had said or done that would have made her question him. She was sure of that. Or was that what all women say when they discover their partner has been fooling them all along?

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© Fiona Stevenson 2007-2009 - All Rights Reserved