Fictional

I stop at a chip shop,

buy a battered cod.

A group of girls comes in,

pushing each other,

screeching.

I can’t believe he replied, says one.

I know. What a knob, says another.

Pushing. Screeching.

You getting a pie? says one.

Can’t I share yours? says another.

I pay for my fish and am eating at a window seat

when Lucy comes in with the dog.

The girls call her over.

Nick is so rude!

But she liked it anyway.

Lucy, you going to Kate’s place Sunday?

Kate’s a bitch, Lucy says.

She is, they all reply.

Lucy spots me. Says nothing. Goes to the counter.

Keep your number private if you don’t

wanna get messaged, she says to the girls

and orders a bag of chips.

Nick’s a total stalker.

Kate’s so getting dumped.

They make sounds of approval.

I leave half the food on the plate

and pull on my coat.

I am almost at the corner when she catches up.

You didn’t have to go, she says.

I was finished, I tell her.

No, I mean from the hut the other day.

We could have …

I don’t know …

You could have told me your name

before you ran off.

Bit abnormal, wasn’t it?

But maybe you are abnormal.

Most people are bonkers.

I am. But in a good way.

Healthy levels of weird right here.

What’s your name then?

I blink and think.

My name?

Am I Allison or Toffee?

And what about this girl with Lucy?

Who is she?

I could take a name from history –

a woman who stepped into herself

without asking permission.

I could be Coco Chanel or Rosa Parkes.

I could be my mother,

Davina Daniels.

But all these people are dead

and I usually want to be alive.

I try to imagine a living woman –

someone strong –

but my mind is a blank,

filled only with pictures of

people running away

or struggling to stay put.

Juliet, I tell her,

deciding on someone fictional,

dead because her dad was an arsehole.

The Labrador is pulling at the lead,

tugging on Lucy’s arm.

She doesn’t resist.

Soon she is far ahead.

Juliet! she shouts.

Like from Macbeth?

I laugh,

though I can’t be sure she is joking.