because of being met by a squeaky phone voice I couldn’t match up with her face. Ten seconds later she cleared her throat and that cough, a sorry excuse for a hamster sneezing, brought her back over the line, settling into a thin-lined beginning. How often does this happen?’ she asked. ‘I need to know so I can be prepared and not have you fall on me.’ So she was expecting to remain close enough to be fallen on. There is this bottle of Maltese wine. My parents brought the stuff back from their holidays and it tastes like something you would use to attract mosquitoes to a sweet, oleaginous death. I’ve made us a batch of chocolate biscuits and we wash the wine down with them. Then she decides it’s a good idea to have me cut her fringe. My hand in the mirror is watched: a test being administered on the edge of a blade. ‘Don’t do that,’ she says once to the quivering scissors. ‘You’re giving me too much symmetry.’ ‘You try it,’ I tell her and lower my shaved head to her neck. On my kitchen table there’s a calendar of forgotten words and expressions of the English language. I haven’t looked at it in months, and whilst I tip-toe over her fringe with a dusty comb, she starts flipping through all this neglected speech, never-used names for things we no longer know, reading out descriptions which hardly make them more meaningful. Today’s exhibit from the past: a Cheddar letter. ‘What if you’re lactose intolerant?’ ‘Cheddar used to be made from different dairy farms,’ she explains. ‘It’s one letter put together by different people.’ I think of a family sitting around a fire, each contributing their lonely versions of home to a son in college or at war, or – why not – dead for years. The idea makes me doubt true democracy. ‘Let’s write one,’ she says and takes her head away from the comb. I haven’t finished. We don’t know anyone we both know. This says something about her, the space she takes on my kitchen floor, and how quickly schedules have been rearranged, my time alone becoming a rare beast. ‘You’re right,’ she admits. ‘So let’s write one to our unborn child.’ I’ve just reached out for more wine and find myself taking repeated sips, until the glass is empty. ‘Cheesy,’ I say. ‘No,’ she sighs, reaching for another bottle. ‘Maltese.’
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