Page 26, Line 26 by Sue Heggie

Inspired by Page 26, line 26 from The Bone People by Keri Hulme.

Breakfast

Now, she sets a knife and fork and plate of steaming mash at either end of the bench, and two mugs of coffee like a line of truce in the middle.

He stares at the no-man’s-land between them but makes no move to speak, head in his hands, rasping his stubbled chin. He reaches for the coffee. She catches the stink of weed, beer, sour breath and oddly, soap. He worries at an old scar on the table as he sips.

At her end, she tries on a kind, forgiving stance. She opens a dialogue, “So how was last night? Who was there from the office?” Makes no accusation of how she had lain awake, gut churning, wondering if he had been king hit at a late-night burger bar, or smashed into a tree, his body unnaturally contorted. Makes no mention of the long night watch of the digital clock scrolling painfully through the dark towards daylight. Doesn’t reference straining for the sound of footsteps, the worried texts.

He leans towards the salt pig. His collar gapes. A purple bruise. A minute pause. Then her brain activates an archival memory, flash flooding her body. A school-boy hickey, a sucked stamp, a hot bitch pissing marker, territorial tattoo masquerading as pulp passion. Last night he was a swaggering Jack Russel, today slumped here, guilt-heavy.

She chooses from the knife, the fork and the coffee. The liquid arcs onto his bald head. The mash cowpat follows.

In the silence, the scraping of her chair and the quiet click of the front door.

Sue Heggie