He opened the door—the blade was sharp. Their love was still the same, and nothing would ever change.  “You in here, baby? Bev? You in here?” Love isn’t a dirty word. “I know you’re in here, honey. Come out, I’ve something to show you.”

​

Bev held the latch.

​

“Don’t talk. Stay quiet.”

​

Never come when you’re not invited; stay away.

​

“But mom.”

​

“He’s been drinking. Stay quiet. I mean it.”

​

Attics are for storage, old possessions, relics—you could smell the past up there. The baby doll was worth a small fortune. Bev touched its face, handmade with porcelain eyes.

​

“I don’t know why you’re so interested in that thing. Dolls are for babies.”

 

All adults were babies once.

 

“I told you to stay quiet.”

 

“Honey, that you up there? I can hear you breathing. I can feel you. Why don’t you come down and say hello?”

 

Footsteps on the landing. Run and never let go, he must have passed underneath them.

​

It was a noisy ladder; one must be sure.

 

“Let’s go. We’re going now.”

 

“But I want to talk to him.”

 

“Quickly.”

 

From the balcony, you could see everything everywhere. He put the blade away and saw the Blue Mountains and the sky at sunset, eucalyptus oil; you could smell it everywhere.

“Bev? Is that you, Bev? I can hear you now. I’ll be right there.”

 

He slammed the door.

 

Rushing footsteps on the landing, any crisis can be averted with a little gumption, take what you need and get the hell out.

 

The porcelain baby was worth a small fortune.

 

“Stop pulling me.”

 

“I’d carry you if I could.”

 

“You carry that baby.”

 

“It’s not a baby.”

 

He won’t chase them out onto the street, out into the open, in public.  “There’s a cab.

Quick.”

​

Curry and body odour.

 

“Where to?”

 

“Thank you driver. Thank you for stopping.” Streetlights flickered on, behind them the headlights.

​

“No problem. Where to?”

​

“It’s been a hell of a day.”

​

​

​

​

​