Fiction
First published by WestWords in ‘Over the Line … ?’ the 2024 Living Stories anthology. Awarded the Highly Commended – Adult prize for Hawkesbury LGA.
With your ugly mug? Don’t kid yourself.
I wanna drink when I think of you.
Second line, something about tequila.
One shot of tequila just won’t do.
‘Garth Brooks, that’s enough. Did you get the tables out yet?’
My wife has never been a supporter of my musical endeavours. I catapult my guitar across the yellow lawn. The strings twang in protest.
‘Plenty of time.’
‘No there isn’t. Everyone’ll be here soon.’
Windsor. God’s country. Where the river meets the mountains. Who’d want to be anywhere else in the world?
‘Daddy, look what I found. Look … aaatttt … iiiitttt.’
Bloody hell, of course there’s somewhere else – or, I should say, someone.
‘Da … dd … ddeeee.’
‘What?’
‘Nut … ting.’
Where was I? Oh yeah. I’m screwed. Do all humans long to pull up the whole garden to nurture a beautiful new seedling? Or is it because I’m a …
‘Dad … dah … eeee.’
Enter stage left Michelle. A taciturn intern with the prettiest green eyes, throwing her head back in a joyous, high laugh. How am I supposed to concentrate on navigating my incessantly burgeoning inbox?
‘DADDY.’
‘WHAT. I mean, what is it? Oh no, don’t cry.’
She doesn’t yell at me for forgetting to close the screen door and now there are flies in the house. She listens to me. Doesn’t interr …
‘Chris, can you water the plants before they get here?’
It’s the small acts of imprisonment that make this more hostage situation than home. I yank the hose from the rusted reel. A lizard watches from a hole under the white picket fence. It pokes its blue tongue at me like it’s saying, ‘With your ugly mug? Don’t kid yourself.’
–
I’ve been up since 6am stirring the mujaddara, chopping parsley for the tabbouleh, rolling the kibbeh, baking the knafeh, carving the ham, marinating the chicken skewers. What’s he done? Look at him, standing there, staring at a blue tongue. He hasn’t even turned the tap on.
I told him to watch Annette (ah, habibi) out in the garden. That was two hours and ten mediocre renditions from Neil Diamond’s back catalogue ago. Some people should only sing in the shower. One of them is my husband.
When we first met, I thought he had the prettiest blue eyes, and loved how he threw his head back in a joyous, high laugh. He was so skinny and fragile, like the seat he was sitting in might swallow him up. I yearned to feed him. And I did. True love is telling your partner to eat more bazella while they’re eating bazella. Now he’s a petulant Peter Pan with a beer belly. A well I’ve been staring at for years with no water to offer. An old, dry sponge that’s been in the laundry sink for decades.
Oh no. Not again.
‘You forgot to close the screen door! How many times do I have to tell you?’
Danielle Catherine 