Читать книгу Feebleminded - Ariana Harwicz - Страница 7

Why are we so gormless at the display counters, not knowing what to eat? Why do we use shop-bought parsley and basil when they grow in the garden anyway? And we laugh. Death a tempting option when she drops the jars of herbs and spices and we have to pick them up one by one like pieces of a skeleton, dry garlic sticking to our fingers. Lying on the sand, on the short grass, the dry soil. No more fighting my mother’s arms. I try to concentrate on the taste of courgettes. They’re raw, I say. Barely sautéed, she replies, just a touch of olive oil. Look at the grass, the way it’s growing in patches, how strange. There are dry bits, as if only they caught the sun, and then sunken bits like marshes. A mystery, my dear, not worth worrying about. Eat up. Looks like the hens are hungry, they screech and screech. We eat. The hand goes back and forth from the mouth. Where’s my phone, mum. It’s not here. We said we’d do it and we’re doing it really well, both of us, add a little salt. I don’t ask about the thick-bottomed glasses either. Mum. He could have phoned. Concentrate. Stare at a point in space and eat up. Good idea to buy this rectangular table, wasn’t it? Not too expensive, and it came with the chairs. Maybe we could do with a parasol, a sun lounger even. Yellow or stripy? It’d be nice to add a bit of colour. They say colour brings life. What crap. How about polka-dots? I’m staring at a point in space. So? Nothing exists. He’s getting further away and it feels like a knife thrust in my gut. These images you fixate on are like junk food. Why don’t you think about the wide-eyed, cheerful little girl you were before you met him, when you used to build hospitals for dying ants? Please don’t ruin this meal. He’s made you so ungrateful, you rude little hussy. I’ve never been cheerful. I cook from scratch instead of reheating stuff and not a word of thanks.