Pig Boy by J.C. Burke

fingers, purposely making long, devouring sucking sounds. ‘Mmmmmm,’ I say again. ‘Deeee-licious.’
    Mum’s never refused pizza and all the biscuits she’s eaten wouldn’t have touched the sides. Still she doesn’t move.
    â€˜Come on,’ I croon. ‘Aren’t you going to have some?’
    Her head wobbles a ‘no’. So she’s breathing.
    I step over the plastic bags on the floor and take out two plates.
    â€˜Let’s enjoy it like we’re in a restaurant.’ I sound like a crazy wanker talking to myself. ‘Two paper towels and some cutlery,’ I tell the back of her head. I place the knife and fork down so that the handles touch the skin on her arms. ‘Shame we don’t have a candle, hey Mum?’
    I’m not sure if this head wobble means a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’.
    â€˜Here’s one for you,’ I announce, plonking a heavy, fat-packed piece on her plate. ‘And two for me.’
    Her forehead lifts and two little eyes peep out at me.
    â€˜I knew that’d get you!’
    She stubs out the burning butt and I notice two thumb marks indented on the skin of her cheeks. I wonder how long she’s been sitting like this. ‘Hey, I’ll bring in the rest of the shopping after dinner. I promise,’ I tell her. ‘You know I love that episode. Archie did too. Remember it’s the –’
    She mows me down. ‘You don’t even know what day it is, do ya?’
    I could tell her I don’t even know what day of the week it is. I could tell her my head is a mire of fear and paranoia. That I’m choking on the filth and sinking so fast that what day it is or what time it is has no meaning to me any more. I could.
    â€˜It’s September 12,’ she says, placing the slice of uneaten pizza back onto the plate like it’s infested with maggots. ‘Me and Archie’s anniversary. That’s what day it is.’
    â€˜Oh?’
    â€˜It woulda been five years today. Five years is wood. Archie most probably woulda made me somethink. I did think about buying meself a bunch of roses today.’ Mum’s chins are tucked up on her shoulder and her voice is whispery and shy. It’s irrelevant that I’m even sitting here. She’s not talking to me. She’s off in her make-believe world. The problem is I’m not and it’s unpleasant having to watch it. ‘It didn’t matta that we wasn’t married, Archie liked to make things all proper. Our first anniversary, he got me a Bedroom Bliss voucher down at Mereton, ’cause that’s paper. That’s when I buy my silk pillowcase. Second is cotton,’ she tells me, using her fingers to track the years. ‘Arch get that lovely white tablecloth with the green flowers.’
    I can’t watch her face any more. Instead I study the stringy mozzarella clinging to my plate like starfish tentacles.
    â€˜And when we make the third anniversary he buy me them lovely china cats in the cabinet.’
    â€˜Archie bought you those?’ I’m looking straight at her now.
    â€˜Yeah ’cause three years is crystal.’ She whispers the next bit. ‘They’re only glass but what’s the difference, eh?’ Mum’s fingers edge towards the pizza slice on her plate. She takes a giant bite. A hunk of cabanossi slips into the folds on her neck. ‘Get us a bourbon and Coke, love,’ she mumbles. ‘Didn’t ya know Archie buy me them cats?’
    â€˜Bought me those cats,’ I reply, getting up to play barman. ‘Buy is present tense. It means it’s happening at the time. Bought is what …’
    Mum interrupts. ‘Sorry I’m not smart like you,’ she says. ‘See, that’s why I gone and met Mr Pascoe. I know ya don’t like talkin’ about it and I know how unfair them bastards down at the school was to ya and how let down ya feel. But son,