Inlay

Much like Monopoly pieces, favourite items chosen repeatedly granted ownership – I was the dog and the big white Tupperware jug. My hand was barely large enough to fit around the handle but it’s the one I was plonked on a rock with as the others scoured the hedges. I was the receiver of the decanted. As quickly as they picked, I consumed and greeted my Sisypheans with purple-stained delight and encouragement. And after many thumbed-pricked hours, not trusted with the load this close to wine, we both would get carried back home. My sister is making pancakes in the big white jug. I haven’t thought about it for years. ‘How come you’ve got that?’ I ask. I know Dad got custody of it in the divorce – but I hadn’t seen it when we cleared his house. ‘It was by his bedside when they found him,’ she says. ‘I knew then it wasn’t suicide. You wouldn’t take a sick bowl to bed…’ ‘But how come you took it?’ ‘Because it’s Dad. Alive. It’s mushrooms and gorse, blackberries and wine.’ She’s totally ignoring the rules! Or is this just revenge?

As if there was a way out! Ever! The first arch of her eyebrows — the left raised slightly higher — pierced him and hovered. Down they fell, the arrow returning with what she sought. “Words, anyway, are a waste of breath,” she’d say. Yet she knew how to know. Arch after arch stripped him of disguises, rehearsed selves. Each lowering brought him out, leaving something of her inside: a movement, a habit, ways of seeing rain, squirrels, pain, silence. “The way is open,” she announced one day, her arch gone. A smile curving. As if there was a way out. Ever.

It was hard not to notice her. On her knees and palms, she meandered unhurt through the river of feet on the busy Shoppers Street. Yet people moved on. That was when another pair of knees and palms collided with hers, bringing her course to a halt. “Looking for something?” he asked. “Duct tape.” “What happened?” “Lost it.” “Shame!” “And you?” “The manhole.” “Gone?” “Yesterday,” he said sheepishly. “Ah! I sealed it with duct tape yesterday.” “You what?” She blinked. “Why’d you do that? Now my pigeons can’t be fed, thanks to you!” “Don’t you paternalise me! It lets out sighs at night. They keep finding their way into my bedroom.” He let out a sigh. “Oh! See? Exactly that!” He stared. “So why the duct tape again?” “The sighs sounded muffled last night. Additional padding would fix it.” “…sorry for your pigeons, though.” “You should be. Their only remaining habitat…” “But those heavy sighs…” she protested. “Excuse me, did someone mention ‘heavy sighs’?” They swerved. A kid, in late teens, stood stooping. Around his neck hung a garland of seemingly empty bottles—all corked. “Already? A busy day, huh?” the man asked. “Yes, quite! All bottled up.” He seemed disturbed. “Can’t release them without the manhole. Daytime sighs harden after dusk.” “It’s pigeons’ air, kid!” “Shh…” she whispered, “it’s around here.” They knelt. Ears to the ground. A subdued flutter. The kid uncorked a bottle. A sigh whistled along the tape seams. She lifted the tape. The sighs slipped in. The man dropped some crumbs. The kid listened, ear to the street. “Still some left.” She frowned. “There always are.” Already, the bottles were refilling. The man looked at her pensively. “Tonight again, then?” She shrugged. “Coffee?” They joined the flow of feet. Beneath Shoppers Street, something continued breathing.