CAT
Tuesday. Third week of October, the fields cut back to stubble, radio on, the goat screaming at a bird somewhere outside. Iris at the table doing something unspeakable to a spreadsheet.
I'm browning shallots.
And then, out of nowhere, my hands go cold.
It's the car keys I think of first. That's always how it starts. The keys on the hook by the door, and how long it would take to get to Marseille, and whether the ferry runs overnight.
Nothing's happened. That's the worst of it. Nothing has happened at all.
I put the spoon down, because I don't trust my hand with it.
"Iris."
"Mm."
"I want to leave."
The tapping stops.
She doesn't look up straight away. When she does, her face is very careful, and I watch her decide not to say the first thing she thought of.
"Right now?"
"Right now."
"Something I've done?"
"No."
"Something you've done?"
"No." My voice comes out strange. "It's just here."
She looks at me a long moment.
Then she looks back down at the spreadsheet.
"Okay," she says.
I stare at her. "That's it?"
"Were you after a parade?"
"I said I wanted toleave."
"And you're still standing there." She types something. "So it can't be that urgent."
I open my mouth. Close it.
"Pass the salt," she says.
I pass the salt.
The shallots have caught a bit. I scrape them off the bottom of the pan and add the wine, and the smell comes up, and the radio changes songs, and behind me Iris types, and types, and types.
By the time I'm plating up, my hands are warm again.
