by Cath Holland
She holds onto the worktop, watches me put away milk. ‘I said full fat not skimmed.’ I nod sorry. She says white bread instead of brown, butter not low cholesterol spread, oily fish not blood-red steak. Curses chops free of marbling.
‘It’s better for you,’ I say.
‘It’s better for you,’ she echoes.
We look similar too. In the right light or wrong.
‘Rain’s coming, get the washing off the line for God’s sake.’ And did I get my hair done again and how much did I spend this time, stand up straight I’ll end up with a hump, every time you sigh it takes ten minutes off my life, have I put on weight and what do I look like in that dress. And why don’t, why don’t, why don’t.
I make her a cup of tea with no flavour, hand her a brittle biscuit, conduct a conversation with no composition.
I bite back why are you so unkind and wait for a decent length of time before getting to my feet. The second my heel leaves her donkey stoned step and toe touches the public footpath she coughs her throat clean. Clear and low, I hear ‘see you next week, love’, thank you on both our lips.
Cath Holland is a writer living in Birkenhead, Wirral. She is published by Mslexia Magazine, National Flash Fiction Day, Dead Ink Books, Arachne Press, Fictive Dream. Her work is broadcast by the BBC. She has appeared on Radio 4 Woman’s Hour talking about her writing, and at Chester Literature Festival, Liverpool Everyman Theatre, Shakespeare North Playhouse, Royal Society of Arts.
