by Kirsty Logan
when the last smear of ketchup is absorbed by the heel of the loaf, up he jumps
to do the dishes. he may only be eleven, but his parents raised him to know about
Chernobyl and Ethiopia and Rwanda, so they are not surprised by his willingness.
they know he knows about unfortunate children. they retire to the tv news.
he stacks the plates and rinses out the glasses, being sure to rattle them around
so his parents can hear. he's a little early and needs to kill time so he rinses forks.
when he's moves onto knives, she has appeared in next door's window: sliver
of nut-pale belly, fingers wet with suds, nails painted bright as glitterballs.
she sways as she scrubs, moving to music he can't hear through the double walls
between them. the gap between sill and blind is shoebox-sized, every wiggle
showing an inch more skin. if her midriff is nude then so must above and below,
he knows. rhinestones are glued along her cuticle, and he prays for reflections.
he crouches by the sink, hands immersed, to get a better angle. a breast's curve,
smooth as a pool ball, dips below the blind. he drains the sink, throws crockery
onto the draining board, and pounds up the stairs. 'he's such a good boy,'
says his mother to his father. they kiss, soundtracked by headlines.
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NaPoWriMo, Day 23.
Perfect.
Really, really nice. I love the implication and the reversal of intent versus reality here.
Why does this make me feel guilty? Nice pop at the end. Good stuff.
Great writing - I agree with Jack about the ending. I like the layout of this too, makes for easy reading.