Читать книгу Feebleminded - Ariana Harwicz - Страница 12

The phone, mum. That’s enough now. We’ve fallen back down, back to tidying the cupboards and sweeping, the hot eggs cackling in the pan. Where is it. How do you want them? Don’t make me look at you again. You’re not getting it back, I won’t give in. I look at the hanging baskets we put up with so much effort. I look at the tiles stuck side by side. I look at the walls and the foundations, the pieces of bread. Give it to me, now. Why do you want to leave again, we’re moving on together and no thanks to old Mr Knife, the two of us alone in the old dodderers’ midst. We’re doing it and the day turns beautiful just like that. How about a picnic? I’ll let you go on the swing. Give it to me before I overcook the eggs, before you’re crying yet again in front of a cold plate of food. I should fry that fucking telephone. Give it to me right now. I should stick it in the oven. Fine, as you wish, but on your head be it, and she flounces out of the kitchen, her hands sopping wet. She enters the darkness of the corridor and returns to the light of the living room, which is dark now, in spite of everything, and she throws it straight at me.