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.

Five fingers on each hand you had.

You read and wrote and climbed and made castles of mud and sand. And you weaved little stories at the story mill.

Then you got a Gameboy. You didn’t need your pinkies for Pokémon. So they fell off.

Then you got MySpace. Flipping the bird got replaced by digital passive agression. Your middle fingers, redundant, melted away.

Your Nokia 3310 claimed your index fingers. No need to leaf through phonebooks now. Tinder took your ring fingers.

And now you’re just thumbs. You can’t write stories with thumbs. Stories flow from the heart and brain and wait at the knuckles. But they’re too big to get through the thumbs. Stories are ten-finger cargo. No more stories for you, then.

 

 

15th day of summer. Jazz club. Deep beneath the streets. A network of cool brick tunnels connecting alveoli of smooth tunes. The jukebox breathes and bleeds through each room. Two pigeons are enjoying mojitos.

“These mojitos are delicious.” Says Pigeon 1.

“I’ve had better.” Says Pigeon 2.

“I’m Paula…” says Pigeon 1, as she extends a wing and knocks over Pigeon 2’s three-quarters full mojito. Mint goes everywhere. Paula is mortified. “I am so sorry!” frets Paula. Pigeon 2 wipes the rum off her breast.

“It’s okay, Paula.” Pigeon 2 reassures her.

Kitchen table. Morning, Tuesday. I made you breakfast. You made me late.

“I’m late.” I say.

“I’m sorry.” You reply. I forgive you. Just like that. The fuzz and hum of morning commutes trickles through the slight gap in the window. “What are you late for?” You enquire. I can’t remember. I can hear you chew. The newsprint has grayed your fingers; the dishwater has wrinkled them. Flour from the morning loaf has silvered your hair.

“I’m late.” I say.

“I’m sorry.” You reply. I forgive you. You forgive me too.