You don’t like broken glass. At night a little boy squeezes through the cat flap to open the front door for you. You get a lolly from the freezer, so cold you can’t peel the wrapper off. You tip-toe upstairs. The mirror in your parents’ bedroom lets you see the bed from the landing. Your lolly melts, making your hand sticky. You daren’t touch anything. Your mother always told you to wash your hands after. You try shaking your hands as if flapping away a fly, as if trying to turn on a motion sensor light, as if drying nail varnish. You rush downstairs, kick the door until it opens. A man’s waiting for you there. But aren’t you the man now? So where’s the boy? Still watching his parents on the bed? You wish you’d smashed the mirror. You wish you could let go of the stick.
Tim Love’s publications are a poetry pamphlet Moving Parts (HappenStance) and a story collection By all means (Nine Arches Press). He lives in Cambridge, UK. His poetry and prose have appeared in Stand, Rialto, Magma, Unthology, etc. He blogs at http://litrefs.blogspot.com/
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