and pull a sucker after his luck.
He gestured to me. ‘Try again.’
I said, ‘You screw the guns.’
He shrugged and picked up a glass rolling pin. ‘Maybe your wife would like this?’
They were blowing glass at the next stall. There were men in leather aprons, their skin as thick and dark, playing on their soundless trumpets and forcing a ball of glass into the fire-shot air.
‘See your future in it,’ said the hag who took the money. ‘Quick, now, as it comes.’
I turned away. My wife wanted to buy a witch ball for her display cabinet. I said I thought it was a mistake, ‘They are just cheap stuff.’ But she liked the way the colours caught in the lacunae of the surface. Reluctantly I gave the hag the money.
She caught my hand as I did so. Instinctively I closed it into a fist but she twisted it like a door knob and my fingers fell open, palm up under her greasy stare. My one hand was much bigger than both of hers together and if I were a quick bite horror writer I suppose I would call them claws. With her hooked nail she scored my heart line and laughed out loud.
‘The heart stops,’ she said.
‘You mean I’m going to die?’
‘Only your heart.’
I pulled away from her and put my hand up to my chest. My ironed cotton chest. My heart was still beating time. The two glass blowers were looking at me with open contempt, as though I were the one filthy, scarred, vagrant. Istepped backwards and collided with one of their women selling bracelets from a basket. My force spilled some of them and I bent down with her to pick them up, saying ‘Sorry, sorry,’ all the while. I was conscious of the others watching me. Where was my wife?
I concentrated on scooping up the last of the fakey sliding gold and raised my head. Her breasts were by my mouth. Her breasts falling out of her man’s loose shirt. Her breasts, tan, taut. Her breasts, unharnessed.
She pulled my head forward and even while I was pulling away I had her skin against my upper lip and my cheeks were burning with shame and I was worrying that I hadn’t shaved enough and hating myself and hating this …
To honour. To mock. To fear. To hate. To laugh out loud. To be fascinated.
Where was my wife?
They were laughing at me, all of them, as I scrambled off the grass and blundered away. My wife and daughter were up ahead moving at the same mesmerised pace as everyone else. I shoved through the tranced crowds and caught up with them both, their backs to me, hand in hand, my wifeand daughter. I smoothed myself down and put my arms round their shoulders. My wife turned and smiled and together we watched the jugglers and my heart paced back to its normal metronome and I breathed again, not too shallow, not too deep. I began to think about a beer.
‘What happened to your trousers?’
My hand went straight to my crotch but my wife did not notice. She was glaring at my knees. I let my eyes travel downwards and there were two green splotches neatly capping my white ducks.
Yes I know we have only just bought me these trousers. These trousers were expensive. These trousers are blatant in their whiteness. Sassy as a virgin courting a stain. These are bachelor trousers not gelded chinos. These are touch trousers in fourteen ounce linen and we had a fight in the shop.
Now we shall have a fight in the field and our raised voices have sawn out a circle in the crowds around us. Our daughter is embarrassed and walks away. My wife says, ‘Ruined.’ ‘Stupid.’ ‘Specialist cleaning.’ ‘Grass.’ ‘How could you?’ and gradually her words break up, out of their sentences, verbs and objects falling away, leaving the subject, me, me, failed again. Failure.
I could no longer hear her. Could see the words forming in glass bubbles out of the crazy trumpet of her mouth. My cartoon wife. Her cartoon husband. Waving their arms and blowing bubbles at the crowd.
Till death us do part. Nothing in the marriage service about a pair of stained trousers. Let
He gestured to me. ‘Try again.’
I said, ‘You screw the guns.’
He shrugged and picked up a glass rolling pin. ‘Maybe your wife would like this?’
They were blowing glass at the next stall. There were men in leather aprons, their skin as thick and dark, playing on their soundless trumpets and forcing a ball of glass into the fire-shot air.
‘See your future in it,’ said the hag who took the money. ‘Quick, now, as it comes.’
I turned away. My wife wanted to buy a witch ball for her display cabinet. I said I thought it was a mistake, ‘They are just cheap stuff.’ But she liked the way the colours caught in the lacunae of the surface. Reluctantly I gave the hag the money.
She caught my hand as I did so. Instinctively I closed it into a fist but she twisted it like a door knob and my fingers fell open, palm up under her greasy stare. My one hand was much bigger than both of hers together and if I were a quick bite horror writer I suppose I would call them claws. With her hooked nail she scored my heart line and laughed out loud.
‘The heart stops,’ she said.
‘You mean I’m going to die?’
‘Only your heart.’
I pulled away from her and put my hand up to my chest. My ironed cotton chest. My heart was still beating time. The two glass blowers were looking at me with open contempt, as though I were the one filthy, scarred, vagrant. Istepped backwards and collided with one of their women selling bracelets from a basket. My force spilled some of them and I bent down with her to pick them up, saying ‘Sorry, sorry,’ all the while. I was conscious of the others watching me. Where was my wife?
I concentrated on scooping up the last of the fakey sliding gold and raised my head. Her breasts were by my mouth. Her breasts falling out of her man’s loose shirt. Her breasts, tan, taut. Her breasts, unharnessed.
She pulled my head forward and even while I was pulling away I had her skin against my upper lip and my cheeks were burning with shame and I was worrying that I hadn’t shaved enough and hating myself and hating this …
To honour. To mock. To fear. To hate. To laugh out loud. To be fascinated.
Where was my wife?
They were laughing at me, all of them, as I scrambled off the grass and blundered away. My wife and daughter were up ahead moving at the same mesmerised pace as everyone else. I shoved through the tranced crowds and caught up with them both, their backs to me, hand in hand, my wifeand daughter. I smoothed myself down and put my arms round their shoulders. My wife turned and smiled and together we watched the jugglers and my heart paced back to its normal metronome and I breathed again, not too shallow, not too deep. I began to think about a beer.
‘What happened to your trousers?’
My hand went straight to my crotch but my wife did not notice. She was glaring at my knees. I let my eyes travel downwards and there were two green splotches neatly capping my white ducks.
Yes I know we have only just bought me these trousers. These trousers were expensive. These trousers are blatant in their whiteness. Sassy as a virgin courting a stain. These are bachelor trousers not gelded chinos. These are touch trousers in fourteen ounce linen and we had a fight in the shop.
Now we shall have a fight in the field and our raised voices have sawn out a circle in the crowds around us. Our daughter is embarrassed and walks away. My wife says, ‘Ruined.’ ‘Stupid.’ ‘Specialist cleaning.’ ‘Grass.’ ‘How could you?’ and gradually her words break up, out of their sentences, verbs and objects falling away, leaving the subject, me, me, failed again. Failure.
I could no longer hear her. Could see the words forming in glass bubbles out of the crazy trumpet of her mouth. My cartoon wife. Her cartoon husband. Waving their arms and blowing bubbles at the crowd.
Till death us do part. Nothing in the marriage service about a pair of stained trousers. Let
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