Читать книгу The Flask - Nicky Singer - Страница 9

The desk squats in my room. I don’t touch it, I don’t put anything in it, I don’t even look at it more than I can help, but it certainly looks at me; it scowls and glowers and mocks me.

Here I am, it says. Just what you wanted, right? A bureau.

I turn my back on that bureau. But it still stares at me – stares and stares out of the mirror.

I turn the mirror to face the wall.

Some weeks later, I hear Mum puffing upstairs. She puffs more than the removal men, because of carrying the weight of the babies all curled together inside her. And also the weight of the worry they are causing.

“Jess,” she says, stopping by my door.

“Yes?”

“Jess – I wish you could have had the piano too.”

And that makes me want to cry, the way things do when you think nobody understands but actually they do.