The kitchen smells of toasted hot cross buns.
There’s an empty plate of burned crumbs
on the counter.
I’d love one smothered in butter.
I can’t turn off the water.
The woman
points with her whole hand,
knotted fingers curled into her palm.
I can’t turn the tap, she explains.
You’d think they’d make it easier.
We’re not all beef cakes
but I wouldn’t say no to one coming in
on a daily basis to turn those taps.
Jesus, let’s be honest, he could turn more than my taps.
She winks, chuckles,
leads me through the kitchen
to the hall,
then a bathroom
where a tub is
about to overflow on to the carpet tiles.
I pull the plug, turn off the tap.
Water burbles and glugs.
A light bulb flickers.
I wanted to wash the nets.
But, you know, I’ll throw them out.
I’d rather throw them than wash them.
Sure, who needs nets?
Not-quite-white net curtains rolled into a ball
are piled high in the sink.
I gotta go.
I step back,
eyeball the front door.
The woman tilts her head to the side.
Can’t you stay? she asks.
I’ll get Mammy to do another plate.
It’s not like there’ll be much to eat at your place.
Huh? No, I’ve got plans, I try,
but don’t move,
my body knowing more than my brain:
I have no money and nowhere to go
and leaving will mean traipsing in the rain.
The woman smiles,
showing off a set of tiny yellow snaggle-teeth.
She is examining my face.
Does it hurt? she asks.
I touch the burn.
Yes, I admit. A bit.
She doesn’t really look all that sorry but says,
I have ointment … Let me find it …
and shuffles back to the kitchen,
roots in a cupboard
and hands me a bottle of factor 30 sunscreen.
Is that what you were after? she asks.
I turn the bottle over, smile.
Um. Not exactly the weather for it, is it?
She looks irritated all of a sudden
like I am to blame.
My stomach pinches with hunger pangs.
Can I have a hot cross bun? I ask.
Oh yes,
it’s just like you to come over when you’re hungry.
She pulls out a chair.
Now sit there.
Go on, sit there.