What would your third wish be?

A lot of things take place all at once. Or so August thought. He sat back in the spindly, cushion-backed chair and opened his newspaper. He liked these chairs. The black frame twisted into the shape of an arch around a delicate shaped flower made from the same frame, each chair had a different flower but each cushion that sat in front of it was encased in tight, grey, high-end fabric.
Yes, he had the pleasure of thinking as he scanned the notices page, I am rather fond of these chairs. My watch also, he realised. How he had come to depend on the simplistic clock-face fastened between two feminine, sleek but not shiny, black straps, it was a fine thing indeed. Rushing out of the house early morning, stepping over potted plants that leaked out all over the footpath, getting his tie stuck on the coat rack that always stood too close to the front door in the same spot- even after reminding Florence over and over again to move it and even after moving it himself on rare occasions-, dropping his toast slathered high with marmalade into a gathering of sluggish snails ambling silently yet as still as a portrait across the pebbly front path, all these horrendously insulting things were made better with a single glance at his watch.
"Flo, dear," he turned to the lady sitting next to him. She looked up from her book, tilting her head back a bit so the wide-brimmed black hat lifted and allowed her eyes to gain some vision. "Mmm."
"We must go car shopping."
She blinked. "Oh?"
August admired her pretty, small, pouty mouth for a few seconds before continuing. "We must. I am in dire need of a new vehicle."
"Today?" Florence queried. Florence was not one for the spontaneous nature of adventure. She simply couldn't understand why August didn't want to sit all day under an apple tree and read.
"We must!"
"Oh, well..." she looked over at the sky for no reason whatsoever. August felt himself lose interest in the companionship that Flo would have offered had she come. Perhaps she wouldn't have been so agreeable, or may have made a fuss over something small like stepping in dog mess, or complained of how heavy her new book was, the structure of her long black dress, or the way in which the wind moved.
"On second thought-" he hurried, but Florence was a natural at taking no notice of other people's discomfort.
"I think it should be a nice day for looking at cars," she said, turning back to him. August closed his mouth. Nodded. Took a quick sip of his cappuccino. Florence went back to her book.
Halfway to the first car-yard (August had planned a sum total of eleven inside his head. His favourite was the third one down on Penny Lane, but he had decided to search two mediocre ones first due to the fact they came recommended by his brother who was stuck in hospital with a broken arm and two broken legs. He felt content that there was now something he could talk to him about.) Florence told him to stop the car and he did. She climbed out carefully and started walking.
"Florence!" he called from the window. "Where are you going?"
"Inside to get an ice-lolly," she pointed with her book to the deli a few cars down. August sighed impatiently. He would have to cross at least one car-yard off the list at this rate. They had stopped earlier on to get petrol, and once more after that so Florence could collect a leaf to use a bookmark.
How she had seen The Perfect Leaf She Must Have Now Or Else Would Faint In A Spasm Of Despair while zooming down the street at seventy in a ridiculous hat that took up half the car he'll never know.
He waited. Florence returned and handed him a blue ice-lolly. This meant he had to sit and eat it.
Another car yard was mentally scrapped from his list. He felt himself break into a sweat.
"I'm not at all fond of the blue ones." Florence remarked while watching a family emerge ungracefully from their car ahead.
"Is that why I've got it?" August demanded.
"I'm not too fond of yellow, either," she mentioned.
"Then why did you get them?" August asked in a mellow form of rage.
"They're refreshing, aren't they? I like how they melt on the tongue."
He ate the last of his like a beaver munching on a log: mechanically fast and with indignation.
"Alright, and we are off." He put the car in drive and sped out onto the street at a high seventy-five. Florence held onto her hat.
When they had driven for about ten minutes or so, Florence delicately produced a camera and took a photo of what could only have been a blurry, lopsided, uninteresting scenic shot of a dirty apartment building and a stack of trashcans next to a vacant square overgrown with grass.
"Was the motion option on?" August asked.
"Hmm?" Florence answered vaguely, her eye still pressed to the camera and focused away from him.
"You know you have to click the motion option when you take a moving photo."
"Is it?" she took another shot, closed the camera and sat back in her seat.
August felt more sweat emerge.
They stopped so Florence could put their lolly sticks into a bin. They pulled over in front of a block of shops so August could consult his map, not because Florence had gotten them lost when she remarked the line of ducks waddling down a side street away from them would make a beautiful photo on the fridge resulting in a duck chase. They stopped shortly after that to use the toilet.
"Darling," August said pleasantly, his casual demeanor back in place once more, so casual in fact that one of his arms rested on the door window ledge.
"Yes?"
"Isn't it time we did something about that awful chair in the kitchen?"
"Which chair?" she asked sharply.
"That yellow one," he supplied, feeling sure in the knowledge that the first car yard was around this corner, and therefore content with all things.
"There is nothing wrong with that chair." She replied, and showed her finality of this matter by opening her book and tilting her hat.
"It's chipped," August said.
"So is the Great Wall of China," Florence said with heavy dismissal.
"One of the legs is missing," August carried on, dodging around her non-compliant tone with one of soft compassion, like one would use when telling bad news to a child.
"It's not missing, it's just shorter."
"Well it may as well be!"
"Mmmm."
August participated in the unnecessary task of re-positioning his hands on the steering wheel, mostly because he was sweating profusely but he'd also read online that moving hands about the wheel makes the driver appear worldly and well-endowed. "Well, no one really sits on it..."
"Its much too small for that."
"There's no airflow! You sit on it and your whole back gets sucked into it. And that's the end until you wrench your way out of it!"
Florence turned a page. "Yes. I remember that happening to you."
"And no matter how many times it's painted, paint does not stick to it. It's like a curse."
"Rather is."
"It's like the Antichrist of chairs!"
"I believe so."
"I just can't..." August shook his head in despair. His sweating was hindering his ability to get a good grip on the wheel at this point. He squinted. Surely the car-yard should be here somewhere, they'd turned the corner a good five minutes ago.
"I'm just saying," he started again, "That chair could be our very downfall and it should go, and I know you don't like it, you have ties with that chair, far be it for me to break them, but it has to go."
"Yes," Florence said, "I agree."
But August didn't hear. His hands slipped and the wheel turned left, altering the direction and causing the car to careen into a high chain-link fence. A bush of tall, out of control flowery weeds offered a padding of protection that August could never have dreamed of.
"Goodness!" he exclaimed.
"Oh my!" Florence scrambled out and lifted up her camera.
"ARE YOU USING THE ZOOM FUNCTION?" August called desperately from across her car seat. "YOU HAVE TO USE THE FUNCTION."
"Mhmm."
She took the shot, took another, then slid back into the car and closed her door. "Augustus," she suddenly turned to him as flower heads dropped slowly onto the bonnet.
August felt that he would combust from the effort of holding in all his sweat. His pores simply ached from it. "Dear," he answered curtly.
"We have to go back, I can't remember if I turned the oven off."
Augustus felt a rush of sweat wash over him so extreme he feared he would never be dry again. As a rule of men who sweat a lot, he glanced down at his pants to see if a wet patch was forming on his crotch region, and he caught a glimpse of his femininely simplistic watch ticking up at him.
All is well, it said calmly through synchronized mechanisms and intricate cog systems. All is well.

Judge me by my size, do you?

“If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you one HUNDRED TIMES, Mira…” Frederick started angrily.

“I don’t care,” Mira shot back, “I am never eating pumpkin stew again.”

“Well! Be it on your head then!”

“It will!”

“Yes! It will! Watch out for it!”

“I’ll do no such thing! YOU watch out for it!”

“Oh!” scoffed Frederick in watered-down disgust (because he had lost quite a bit of heart for this argument the moment Mira had mentioned stew). “Well if you’ll let me, I will very much oblige.”

“Don’t joke, Frederick, it’s never suited you.” Mira retorted, trying not to look at Frederick’s pants, because they were just too darn eye-catching and she would rather spend five days outside in the freezing cold eating nothing but cornflakes from the box than admit to Frederick that his pants were any good.

“I will joke, and YOU will listen, and I’ll record my jokes and put them on the internet and the WHOLE WORLD WILL LISTEN.”

“NO ONE WOULD EVER CLICK ON A LIKE.”

“There will be all sorts of clicks, Mira,” Frederick stared her down in a serious manner that was altogether too serious for this matter. “And some of them may be on a like, but others, well they will be on more interesting-”

“HA! The whole world will drop dead and then I’ll have to forage around in the apocalypse for food while you make haphazard conversation to wilting trees.”

“Don’t say the word haphazard, it makes your mouth move in an unflattering way. And trees do not wilt.”

“My mouth moves unflatteringly?”

“Very much so. I was afraid to tell you. Now I am not.”

But he did look a little sad. Mira could see the corners of his mouth turn down as he spoke, and a darkened shadow seemed to pass over his face, as if he had stood up without looking and his head burst through a rain-cloud. Mira straightened.

“Frederick,” she said as solemnly as her little frame and apparent ugly mouth movements would let her, “Know this. I shall never say the word haphazard again.”

“Agreed.”

“What, you too?”

“No!” Frederick exclaimed with horror, and hurried on with: “I’m in agreeance with your suggestion.”

“Oh, well…” Mira thought this through. Maybe she could get him to change a few things too. Some things, she thought irritably, did need to change in order for her life to run smooth, with course, and on time. “You could probably do with putting your shoes on in the correct order.”

“Correct order?”

“You know, left foot first.”

“What foolery is this?”

“It’s been proven!” Mira said earnestly.

Frederick thought this to be unlikely. He knew things. He knew of ways. He knew how the world worked and where things should be placed in order to maximise one’s own bargaining potential. There had been too many overseas trips where he had not received the correct price for goods, and this kept him awake at night. It irked his bedtime routine. It made him spread his lunchtime Vegemite sandwiches with the wrong thickness. His contacts had a way of feeling upside down. There always seemed to be gum wherever he sat or stepped. The elevator button always managed to be jammed when it was his turn to press. So, perhaps, this way of thinking was not unusual or something to laugh off.

“Mira,” he said gently and with the appropriate amount of mystery to catch her attention. He noticed her frown with suspicion and felt a little disappointed but pressed on nonetheless. “I have given this a great deal of thought-”

“Y-e-s--?”

Mira would never admit it but she was intrigued. She was so intrigued that she felt herself get a little wet. She clung to this captivation in a form of desperation so she would avoid Frederick’s pants.

Frederick was poised: one eyebrow raised, one side of his mouth perked a little in an anticipatory and celebratory grin, one foot slightly in front of the other (although that was just his natural posture, which Mira would have to also find time to correct).

Mira said, “And?”

“FENG SHUI” Frederick almost yelled in what looked to Mira like an oncoming spasm of anguish.

“A- what?”

Frederick lowered his arms and Mira realised he had raised them. Was there nothing he could do? Did everything have to be a form of ghastly re-enacted vomit?

“You’ve never heard of Feng Shui?”

Frederick should not have been surprised. He had often wondered about the limited space in Mira’s mind. It saddened him in places he didn’t know he had, organs he’d never heard of, it tested his patience like a melting ice cream on a hot day.

“I will tell you what I tell the rest of them-”

“Darling, Feng Shui is not something to be ignored.” Frederick could not believe that she had heard about it but was unwilling to partake in the sensational varying delights it offered. “There will be a time,” he breathed staring at her.

Mira rolled her eyes.

“There will be a time,” he repeated in absolution.

Mira remembered why she never talked about furniture in his presence. She liked to observe her nails in an obvious way whenever someone spoke about that Feng Shui nonsense. Any Ikea crap or motivational vase-placing, colour-matching, tea-stirring malarkey made her good vibes fall apart like grating a rusty pipe.

“Mira-”

“Frederick,” she spoke over him firmly, “Listen here. There will be no rug hung up in my living room (“our” he whispered), no thousand dollar cutlery set because the pattern is a carved lotus (“but they’re transformation!” he gasped), and definitely no three-hourly visits to a place of worship where we have to wear robes and kneel with our heads bowed over a dirty bowl of tap water praying for inner peace to a god that came from a fairy-tale book (“those gowns are made of silk” he inhaled a tortured breath).

While Mira was rattling off her demands, Frederick felt a new sensation. One overriding his current sense of doom. It was arousal. He stood in despair and watched her determined expression, her luscious hair falling past her shoulders, her one chipped nail from baking a batch of muffins earlier that day, and he suddenly knew. Feng Shui didn’t matter.

“Mira,” he announced in a flourish. “Let us bed with one another.”

“What?”

Mira often had the sneaky feeling that Frederick was a closeted stage performer. Every time he came bursting into the room where she was occupied, or started a sentence off with ‘sweetheart, there’s something important I have to tell you about my day…’ she would wait for him to confess his secret, and every time he did no such thing, causing her to enter a fury that lasted for days and that she could not explain to him for fear of sounding insane.

“I am turned on by you at this very moment,” he said in a low voice.

“Are you?” she asked, uninterested in his answer. She recalled earlier on having felt wet herself. She supposed one must carry on with that feeling.

“I am very much.”

“Well, I appear to be also.”

“Say it is so!”

“It is this very instant!”

“Let us go there!”

“Yeah, alright then.”

How do I get it to make the 'ticking' sound?

Paypine looks at me in a suspicious, narrow-eyed way for a very long time. I start to wonder if the egg in her sandwich is seeping into the bread, making it soggy and unappetizing.
"Well I'm sure there was nothing you could do," she says at last in an abrupt manner and takes a harsh bite of the sandwich.
I gape at the sudden turn this has taken. "I- I guess not."
"It wasn't a love connection," she says while chewing.
"Oh, of course not-"
"Not anything special or romantic, by the sounds."
I frown. "Well, there were som-"
"Entirely unworthy of mentioning, I daresay."
"Hey, it was a-"
"Totally void of worth. Can't imagine why I had to hear it."
"Oi! I'm sharing my experience-"
"Probably best you didn't, I'm a delicate thing."
"Delicate?"
"I'm old. Old things are delicate."
"Not all ol-"
"Avalon!" Paypine exclaims in a high rasp. "How startling to see you out here when there's church group going on."
I turn to see a tall, thin elderly lady with bright red hair and a black and white overcoat walking up to us, tripping a little as she walks, as if she's tipsy. Or having trouble with her high black sandals.
"Paypine! How gorgeous to see you! No, I don't see those old biddies anymore," Avalon says in a high and hurried voice. She stops in front of the bench and I notice a round wine glass in her hand half filled with some sort of pink liquid.
"Left, have you?" Paypine asks with scorn.
"Oh, Paypay, keep up, that was ages ago. Months and months. You'd know if you called, or came round, or even sent a letter, I do appreciate a good old pen to paper transaction." She turns her green eyes to me and asks in a hushed flourish, "My, who's this lovely young chicken?"
Paypine makes a 'humph' noise and puts on a great show of carefully arranging her sandwich next to her on the bench, leading to me announcing, "Cerri," at the same time Paypine grunts: "This is my bench friend Cara. She's telling me all about her little friendship with another girl."
"Oh! How quaint," Avalon exclaims jovially, swinging her glass to the side as she steps one thin leg across the other.
"It's Cerri, actually," I correct. Paypine looks up and runs her eyes over every inch of Avalon.
"Yes, I spoke to one of my good friends the other day. Paypine knows her, she goes by the name Caroline, but everyone friendly with her calls her Cara, because of that famous poet, what was her name? Cara something or rather, started with a P, long, Italian sounding..."
I watch Avalon's glass sway about. Some of the liquid sways merrily onto her pants.
Paypine clicks her tongue at the spillage. "Ava, you're spilling it all over yourself. Why must you drink at noon?"
"Oh! This is vitamins!" Avalon waves the glass with apparent ease and blissful ignorance.
"Will you be long? I'm eating lunch and my egg sandwich is going cold."
"Paypay..." Avalon laughs, "Always so squinty. Now, Cara, tell me about this lady friend. Had a tragic falling out over some boy, was it? Why I remember-"
"Let her answer, goodness heavens people should actually answer your ridiculous questions," Paypine interrupts angrily.
"Yes, yes!" Avalon says brightly to me, "Do go on!"
"It's a love story," Paypine cuts in as my mouth opens.
"Actually-" I start.
"Ooooh! Love. Wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy, sweetheart. It makes you a fool- although I did get a Trolgar house and the rose bushes I always wanted from my first..." Avalon frowns at the grass as if in deep thought.
"First?" I ask, mainly to keep myself in the conversation and not because I need her to tell me she means first husband.
"Or was is Lester?"
Paypine picks up her knitting. "Husband dear. You'll catch on to these things when you get older and start having relationships."
"No, I thought Lester owned the boat house... out in Surryville. That cramped two bedder. Well!" she suddenly perks up with bright eyes, "I got what I was after in the end, not all men can give you what you want so you have to choose wisely, dear. It can sometimes take a few to get the right house- I mean car! I mean person!" She laughs and takes a gulp of her pink vitamins. "But do stay in touch, won't you, sweety? I'd love to hear how you get on with this boy of yours, here hold this."
I take the glass while Avalon whips out a pen and some paper and scribbles something.
"Oh, here we go," mumbles Paypine into her knitting, "here we go with 'the number' carry on."
"Actually, it's a girl," I say into the long-awaited silence. "I was seeing-"
"Here, love, here's my number," Avalon whisks the glass out of my hand and replaces it with the little slip of paper. I catch a string of numbers.
"I also put my fourth at the bottom, you know, in case you need an edgy hairstylist- he's the best." she leans in closer, "between you and me, I feared he was a bit that way inclined, he was just so good with my hair, but he runs it now, it's so chic. So sleek. Well! Must dash. Don't be a stranger Paypine, everyone loves your witchy comments, always such a laugh! Bye girls!"
I watch Avalon trip away through the park. Then I turn to Paypine.
"She seems nice."
"Oh, her?" Paypine replies airily. "I wouldn't have a clue who she is. Shall we get our coffees now?"

Why did I buy parsnips instead of cream from a can?

Day 19 of the Holiday Log

Yes.

Era.

My drug.

Or was she?

I was wrapped tightly in a web of soft moments that threw out sparks and twirled my world in what I thought was a never-ending delicious dose of ecstasy. But paint swirls together and creates an ugly, globy mess. No one uses that colour paint.

You wouldn't mix up the colours like that and create a work of art.

But lives... life.... life is tricky, complicated, it stretches out forever and you think there is all the time in the world. You think the little bursts of kisses, skin touching, giggles, play fighting in the park, torn clothing- you think they will last.

It feels so good.

How could it end when it feels so damn good?

I never thought Era would pack a suitcase and walk out of the apartment door.

"My boyfriend's back in town."

I never thought I'd see her eyes- those eyes I'd stared into while I tried not to blink first so I could eat the cookies and cream ice cream, those bright excited eyes that had looked at me a thousand times, those eyes right up close...

Well.

I never thought they could pass over me so lifeless as they did that day.

"HAS YOUR MEMORY BEEN COMPLETELY WIPED?" I wanted to yell.

My throat ached with what I wanted to say. I didn't know something that didn't exist could weigh down on me so hard, until I was sure I'd suffocate.

I never thought I could grip my knees so tight as I held them to my chest.

"You knew it wasn't serious. Surely you knew..."

"Surely you didn't..."

"...just fun..."

I never thought paint could swirl into such an ugly colour.

The door slammed and the walls shook. The table shook. The fridge fell. Plates fell and shattered, glasses fell and shattered, the light fell and smashed into a thousand tiny pieces. I thought: don't move. It's not real if you don't move. 

Don't move.

Bits of ceiling fell around me in chunks. Like confetti.

("Let's get married!"

"At Parliament House!"

"No- on the lake! Duh!"

"At Cherie's!"

"Yor- Who?"

"That Bakery next to the photo shop."

"Oh yeah! Yeah, that's the place!"

"Flash wedding."

"Sorry, Cer, I'm wearing the suit."

"With a red pocket square."

"A pop up wedding!"

"Shot gun wedding!"

"Are you pregnant?"

"Dick."

"Let's go shopping!"

"Stop throwing confetti everywhere, chirst Era. Who's gonna to clean it up?"

"You love me.")

Everything around me was breaking beyond repair, so it was no surprise at all when I looked down at my scrunched up legs and saw pieces of myself lying among the rubble.

I never thought some cracks could run so deep.

So much cake, so where's the time?

Day 13 of the Holiday Log

("The girl and the creatures putting you together!" Paypine exclaims whilst jabbing me with her walking stick, "Continue!"
"That is real life," I say, aghast.
"Well then."
"Are you entertained?" I ask in sheer bewilderment. Could this little, wrinkly, neatly dressed woman of magical mystic actually be enjoying my tragic chapter of life? "This is uncharted territory! This is love and war and... and, uh... enlightenment, and a horrible murder... and a detective most foul and all that stuff."
She puts her stick down and leans in close to whisper, "This is life, dear.")
No one told me that little creatures were fond of tea breaks. And that when they decided to have one, they did it with a flourish. Like an overindulgent play-actor humorously waving his arms about with raised eyebrows to receive laughter from the audience.
They set out a blanket, patchwork green and red, and placed a basket from nowhere on one corner. The large-nosed creature ran up with humongous mismatching cups and saucers, all in a floral pattern. I snorted, because,  floral teacups? They all turned in unison to look at me, and I admit, it was a terrifying time for about five seconds. Then they turned back to their tasks, shrugged as a whole, and continued on. The pointy-eared creature came running up carrying platters piled higher than it's poor little head, heaped with colourful creamy cakes, buttery scones, fat fluffy muffins, square chocolate slices, and puffy jam-filled tea cake. He plonked the whole lot in the middle of the blanket and all the creatures stopped again, all at once, and they sighed together.
"ALWAYS OFF!" one shouted.
"Never!"
"They all roll around now!" screeched another.
"They must!"
"DIRTY!" trilled one.
"CLUMSY!" squealed one.
"POTLUCK!" cried one, and everyone turned to the smallest creature who was sitting at the back, rocking to and fro on his bottom. "I want money!" it cried and cackled in laughter.
"Irish," muttered the creature with the loincloth to another one.
"Never with fortune," the other one muttered back.
"Tried to steal my purple sock!" exclaimed a third one, behind them. The three of them gasped, and the third one continued with, "thinks it was fortune!" in hushed tones.
"Kill it," the loincloth creature said and I had a sudden image of bloody murder before tea and cake was served.
"Guys! Guys..." I started rationally.
"TEA NOW!" came a screech and I turned to see the LARGEST most FLORAL teapot being carried out to the blanket, seemingly filled with boiling water due to the slow progress it made and the huffing and terrified squeaks coming from underneath it.
All the creatures cheered.
"No one helps him?" I asked in concern.
The nearest creature turned to me with a serious expression-
("Tea!" exclaims Paypine with a happy rasp. "That's doing things right."
"It was," I agree. "I forgot all about my holes. They had tidied up the pieces, put them in a pile, you know, dusting them, I think one was polishing some..."
"Oooooh," says Paypine, clearly impressed.
"The whole thing was well-organised because there were so many!"
"Yes, yes, but get back to the girl. What happened with the girl?"
"Oh." I feel an emptiness creeping in like a gigantic blanket being pulled over my head to block out all the light, and the air. "Well...")

How much frosting should cake have access to?

Day 12 of the Holiday Log

I stared limply at my broken pieces scattered around me and watched helplessly, somewhat defiantly, at the little creatures trying to put me back together.
"Not use that one- it's wrong!" cried one no bigger than my hand with large pointy ears and glittering emerald eyes, to another with a rather unfortunately large rounded nose and out-turned feet as it carried what looked like a shard of my leg. Skin. It looked like a thin slice of skin.
The large-nosed creature shrugged and tried to push it into a smaller opening in my foot. The piece grated against my skin like glass. I winced.
"Wrong!" a third creature with a small tuft of brown hair at the very top of his head, big pale square hands and a pouch tied around his hips like a loincloth, slapped it right out of the second creatures hands.
"Oi! 'Twas the right!"
"Twas the WRONG!" shrilled the third in a voice like a bird. "You always do the wrong!"
The second creature pushed the third. "I do the right! Always!"
"You are opposite! Since birth!" the third pushed back, and I was thinking in the back of my mind, just how long are they going to take here? What happens when I need to pee? Because I will, at some stage, and it just won't work if I haven't all the pieces.
(I turn to the elderly lady and say, "I have to mention, I had NO IDEA if they were male or female. None."
"Egcht," a glop of mayonnaise falls onto her shirt but I pretend not to notice because that's what bench-buddies are for.
"They were like little goblin ornaments made out of clay," I continue wholeheartedly, "and they fought like family. Or... like warriors all geared up for battle but without the spears."
"Spears?" the lady echos.
"Yes. You know, those long pointy, um, sti-"
"I know what spears are, youngin', and be sure to remember that I wasn't born yesterday out of a trash can."
Phew, I think, I had been worried.
"No, but," I continue, as if she hasn't just called me a 'youngin' and I didn't just voice concern that I don't actually feel inside my own head for no reason, "they tried really hard. I have no idea why. Why would they come, so little and thin they were, and try for ages to put bits of me back? I probably didn't even need putting back."
I try to remember exactly how I ended up in that state, but it's all a blank space. Like fog.
"Why were you in pieces in the first place?" the lady asks before taking another bite of her sandwich.
"I... Uh, I don't know..."
"Hmph. And you say they fought like family."
"Like actual intent to murder each other."
"Well, well..." the lady seems intensely satisfied. I study her wispy white hair for signs of freshness; evidence of a recent good wash that brings out the shine and contentment among susceptible users, but it's oily at the top, clumpy, and frizzy at the ends.
"What exactly is your name again?" I ask, because confusion always makes me curious. Curiosity is far more exciting to feel in times of helplessness. It earns respect and admiration. Confusion earns frowns and a possible eye-roll or punch in the face.
"Yugasma Matilda Emerald Archibald."
I ask, "Are you shitting me?"
She says, "No. That is my exact name."
"What about your actual name?"
"That is Paypine."
"No it isn't."
"Now," the lady licks her fingers one by one and I sit there, watching the wind blow her hair, and I think, can a person have too many names? And if so, how many is the correct amount?
"You must tell me how you got all your parts together," she finishes, and looks at me.
I narrow my eyes at this mysterious yet atrociously identifiable woman. "Your hair was grey last week," I accuse in a low voice.
"It changes at will," she replies in a calm tone without defense or humour.
"Being as that may," I press on, giving my head a good shake and sending a silent yet probably very deadly and powerful prayer to Allah, "I still don't und-"
"Now you see lassie!" the woman, Paypine, suddenly jabs me in the knee with a shiny walking stick.
"Is it made of pure gold?" I gasp. Tears of mild pain well inside my eyes. Awe may be bubbling away in a little corner of my heart. (But really, the real motive here is the burning need for that amazingly awesome staff- stick. It's a stick. A solid gold, enormously expensive stick. Not magical...)
"It is pine. Like my name. Now, get back to your story!"
"Story?")

What is fair in cheese and cake?

Day 7 of the Holiday Log

I have to admit it, I was encumbered. Encased. Shrouded in the very depth of what lust is.

Let me backtrack. 

~

It's not often that someone wholly ethereal crosses your path and for me that was Era. Or Erame. She was the one who made me believe anything was possible and I'd wake up each morning with this intense drive to make anything happen. I was insane.

I wanted to prove that I was just as magical and I wanted her to see and I wanted her to want me because of it.

Silly tricks. Childish games.

But you don't see how absurd it is until you come out of it, and then you cringe at everything you did with disbelief and despair.

Erame was my drug.

I was probably just her lame sidekick that she could call to anytime for the sake of her own amusement or boredom.

But, those days...

Those days were the best of my life. 

~

The day after Era had given me her number, I went over to her apartment on Fourth.

She had rolls of parchment as wide as a man is tall propped up against the wall, dim lanterns on the kitchen counter and hanging from the ceiling, an overflowing ferny pot plant sitting in one corner, a black and white photograph of herself blowing into the camera, and a maroon dress hanging from the bedroom door. 

She smiled dreamily as I stepped inside and said, "This is my apartment. I used to share but they moved out because of drugs."

"Oh, yes," I nodded in agreement wrapped tightly around confusion, "Them drugs..."

"Only the light stuff," she said with big eyes, as if trying to tell me something in a whole new way because the spoken language just wasn't cutting it.

"Of course," I managed to murmur, because I hadn't the faintest idea about drugs or telepathic communication and her mouth was pink today. I felt outraged. I had travelled here by bike and she had changed colour?

"So!" I started in a high-pitched squeal as Era opened the fridge and took out a jug of orange liquid, "colours today just ain't what they used to be!" and I slapped the counter.

She asked, "What are they today?"

I said, "You know, they're changing and moving and designing monoliths."

Era frowned at me as she poured the orange stuff into two round glasses. She slid one over to me. I caught gaze of her lips again and forgot that my hand wasn't already above the counter so it smashed into the chair I was standing behind as I reached for the glass, and I gotta say, I wasn't as smooth as I had planned to be. I was neither graceful or swan-like, and perhaps this was due to my lack of costume. 

I was entirely too human.

I managed to say, "That postman!" loudly, and quite convincingly, as I shook and squeezed my hand, realising that Era had turned her back to put the jug back in the fridge and missed the whole thing.

"Hmmm?" 

I quickly picked up my glass, said ,"Well, he's never on time, is he?" and gulped down the whole glass.

"Cerri, that's vodka."

"FUCK ME!" I yelled. It burned all the way down.

Era's frown was rather deep by now. 

"Why?!" I gasped. "Why give- vodka- why give- to unsuspecting innocent people?"

She laughed. Her face lit up and her teeth on display, head tilted to the side, glass in one hand, positively delighted.

And that is when my world started crumbling.