Sarah has two glass eyes. One on the right side of her face, and one on the left. And not just stuck on, either, they’re where the normal eyes should be. It’s totally legitimate, she has no eyes any more. I mean, no squishy ball, flesh and blood, seeing eyes. Just the glass ones. She has to remember to take them out when she goes bunjee jumping. She keeps her real ones in a jar by the door. All pickled but they’d stare right at you and follow you around the room as you came in. She can’t even see any more, it’s absolutely mad. She did it for a boy she loved. She thought he loved her too. But he didn’t love her enough to stick around once she’d got out the grapefruit spoon.

On Tuesday, Gary went to the supermarket for lunch.

“Good morning, Linda!” he said to Linda, shuffling past the checkouts and through the crisps aisle.

“Good morning, Gary!” she replied, looking up as she scanned a packet of digestives for Paul.

Gary made his way slowly to the deli counter.

“Good morning, Daniel!” he said to Daniel.

“Good morning, Gary!”  he replied, with a mix of weary reservation and chipperness.

Gary surveyed the goods. “I think I’ll try a bit of this Wensleydale!” He reached to grab piece with a little cocktail stick. “And chutney, too! And a little cracker!” His eyes salivated. He popped the treat in his mouth and chomped, evidently concentrating very hard and looking to the side as he did so, making large washing-machine like motions with his mouth. After much consideration he exclaimed: “Delicious!”

“Would you like to buy some today, Gary?” asked Daniel.

“Oh, well, maybe I’ll just try one of the others!” Daniel wasn’t surprised. “Ah, pork pie!” Gary shuffled along the counter and tried the next thing. And the next, and the next. Eventually, after trying everything once, he rubbed his stomach and said “Well, I’m quite full now!” and shuffled off.

I watched a spider packing up her silks. She wound them round a spindle and she placed them in her bag, of dark blue duffel and with light brown trim. Above us, the birds and clouds and sky, rosy-cheeked and singing, were having their after-work drinks.

My grandmother used to grow ice cream in the garden. She lived in Russia, a few hours North of Moscow. We’d plant it in the autumn, just as the first frosts were beginning to grab. Katya and I would visit her every other weekend. We’d hop on the tram and sit in the hay. It was a two hour journey. Sometimes during growing season, from November to March, we’d go and sneak a bit out when she wasn’t looking. I liked it best before it was fully ripe, after a February snow, crystalline and slightly bitter.

Tell me about you.

I want to know what makes you tick. And what makes you tock.

Or if you do a whole different thing entirely.

How are you feeling? What are you feeling? What feelings are in you? Are there more than one? What order are they in? Are they in sealed bags or are they free to squish around inside you and bleed and blend into one another? Can you give them names? Terry, Clive, and Angela?

Are you hungry? Let’s get some sandwiches, if that’s fine. I’m hungry. We’ll eat together. If you’re not hungry you can wrap the sandwiches in foil and have them later.

Are you too hot or too cold? Or somewhere in between? Shoes on? Keep your toes all wrapped up in their socks. Or maybe let them breathe the same air as you.

Are you moving forwards, or backwards? Or sideways? Or up or down?

Do you like books? Music? Food? Dance? Buildings? Cars? Salt? Cats? Bridges? Science? Ballet? Rembrandt? Gravy? Kindness? Happiness? Bo Derek?

I want to know everything.

Sometimes you make me feel so small.

You take your hand from mine and lend me your gaze with defeated eyes.

I’ve heard this before, but not from you. From her before you. Although not from her before her, who, ironically, was the smallest of all of you. Maybe she and I didn’t let the space between us grow for long enough. We stayed up close, where she could count the freckles on my eyelid and I could smell her toothpaste.

Maybe everything gets smaller with time.

Today I called in sick. “I’m sick.” I coughed as Terry answered the phone. I wasn’t. I just decided to give it a go.

I stayed in bed until 8:32AM, twelve minutes longer than usual. No sense wasting the day, I thought. I slithered out of bed with an impish pride, and sauntered downstairs. Merv and Georgia were finishing off their porridge. I could smell the adhesive binding them to their routine. “Are you late?” asked Merv. “No.” I responded, bluntly.

We planned to meet again at some point in the deep future. But not just now. I wrote down the time and day and place in plain blue ink on a piece of paper napkin.

As I danced home that night the sky began to rain. All the way from up there to down here. The drops soaked through my hat and coat and shoes and trousers and almost through my skin to my heart and liver and lungs and skeleton, and nearly all the way to my brain, where it might have soaked through all my memories and made all my interesting facts soggy and damp. That wouldn’t have been good. Fortunately I got home just in time. “Phew.” I exhaled, as I shuffled into my house. I took off my clothes and ran a hot bath, and reached for the note I had written, to pin it to my noticeboard so I wouldn’t forget. Thursday, 8pm, under South Bridge near the popcorn stand. But the date had washed away. I couldn’t even remember the year, let alone the month or day. We’d had a lot of caipirinhas. I had no idea which Thursday we agreed on. So I guess, to be safe, I’ll have to try them all.

While you were sleeping I took some pliers and peeled off each off your fingernails, and each of your toenails too. I’m selling them on eBay. The highest bid is currently £20. For the lot. That’s £1 per nail, which is a drastic undervaluation if you ask me. I might force the price up by bidding myself. Risky though. I don’t want the nails. I have enough. In a box under the clock.

Why didn’t you wake up? I wonder. Maybe you’re just that much of a giver. I wake you up, gently. By rubbing a cold celery stick across your face. I fill your ears with hummus. £25.20. We’re getting there. You begin to feel your extremities. You scream a little, but not too much.

“James…” she nudged me gently as she whispered in my ear. I grunted. I don’t like waking up. “James!” she shook me a little harder and exclaimed a little louder. I opened one of my eyes half way. They were gooey with contact lens-induced eye glue. I slowly sat up.

“There’s a horse at the door!” She exclaimed.

“What?” I repied. “But it’s a Sunday!” I don’t think she understood.

I spilled out of bed and stumbled to the dresser, still mostly blind, dessicated and dehyrdrated. I scooped up the baggies and hid them in the drawer, dunked my hands into the water pint and rubbed my eyes. I put on a smile and grabbed the envelope from the armoir, and sauntered innocently downstairs. I opened the door.

“Nigel.” I said.

“You’re late, Gary. Over a month late.” Said the horse.

“I know Nigel, I’m sorry. It’s a Sunday. It’s early. This isn’t the best time…”

“I need your rent. Bad things will happen if I don’t get that rent, Gary.”

I nodded in submission. “Look, here’s half.” I handed him the envelope. “I can get the rest to you on Tuesday.”

Gary took the envelope in his mouth. He sniffed and peered behind me. “Someone here?” He asked.

“No Nigel.” I replied. “Just been doing some cooking.”

Nigel grunted suspiciously and looked back at me. He backed away, staring me down. “I’ll be back Tuesday, Gary. Remember: bad things. Bad things.”

Nigel turned away and trotted off.