I find a four-leaf clover on the verge, and when I stand up there you are. We go to a café and you arrange the chairs so that neither of us has to sit in a corner.
You remind me not to put my new shoes on the table, or to wear them for the first time on a Friday. In fact, you say, it might be better if you don’t go out at all tomorrow. So, you come home with me instead, and close all the curtains so I won’t see the new moon through glass. When I ask if I will see you again, you knock on the wooden door frame.
When we go out you grab my arm to stop me walking under a ladder; when we get home after the rain, you take my umbrella from me so I don’t open it indoors. It’s unlucky to cross on the stairs, you say; you tell me to wait until you come down. Stupid, you say, when I put bread on the table upside down.
Don’t eat so much. Don’t look at me like that. Don’t lie to me. Don’t switch off your phone. Don’t leave the house without me.
Look what you made me do.
A black cat crossed our path today; it stood in the road and turned its head to look at us, disregarding the oncoming traffic. I let go of your hand, and went to save it.
How close do the magpies have to be to make a pair? When is it just twice the sorrow?
Victoria Sellar is from Cambridge, UK. Her short fiction has been published by Broken Spine, Pure Slush, Wild Word and Waxed Lemon. Her zines, published by Colossive Press, are found in libraries including the Women’s Library, Glasgow, University of the Arts in London, and Barnard Zine Library, New York.
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