thigh.
For a moment he wants to retreat, as if he’s too close to the edge. His freckles make him look younger. His eyes don’t meet mine. Instead he bunches his shoulders shyly and says thank you. The front page is still wrapped around my thigh. For a moment I’m tempted to have some fun. I could make a joke about feeling like tomorrow’s fish-and-chips.
The breeze feels cool on my neck. “Sorry, I’m rather sweaty.”
He touches his nose nervously, nods and touches his nose again.
“Do you run every day?” he asks suddenly.
“I try to.”
“How far?”
“Four miles.”
It’s an American accent. He doesn’t know what else to say.
“I have to keep going. I don’t want to cool down.”
“Okay. Sure. Have a nice day.” It doesn’t sound so trite coming from an American.
On my third circuit of the park the bench is empty. I look for him along the street but there are no silhouettes. Normal service has been resumed.
Farther along the street, just visible on the corner, a van is parked at the curb. As I draw nearer, I notice a white plastic tent over missing paving stones. A metal cage is propped open around the hole. They’ve started work early.
I do this sort of thing—take note of people and vehicles. I look for things that are out of the ordinary; people in the wrong place, or the wrong clothes; cars parked illegally; the same face in different locations. I can’t change what I am.
Unlacing my trainers, I pull a key from beneath the insole and unlock my front door. My neighbor, Mr. Mordecai, waves from his window. I once asked him his first name and he said it should be Yo’ man.
“Why’s that?”
“Because that’s what my boys call me: ‘Yo man, can I have some money?’ ‘Yo man, can I borrow the car?’”
His laugh sounded like nuts falling on a roof.
In the kitchen I pour myself a large glass of water and drink it greedily. Then I stretch my quads, balancing one leg on the back of a chair.
The mouse living under my fridge chooses that moment to appear. It is a very ambivalent mouse, scarcely bothering to lift its head to acknowledge me. And it doesn’t seem to mind that my youngest brother, Hari, keeps setting mousetraps. Perhaps it knows that I disarm them, taking off the cheese when Hari isn’t around.
The mouse finally looks up at me, as though about to complain about the lack of crumbs. Then it sniffs the air and scampers away.
Hari appears in the doorway, bare-chested and barefooted. Opening the fridge, he takes out a carton of orange juice and unscrews the plastic lid. He looks at me, considers his options, and gets a glass from the cupboard. Sometimes I think he is prettier than I am. He has longer lashes and thicker hair.
“Are you going to the reunion tonight?” I ask.
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
“Don’t tell me
“I changed my mind.”
There is a voice from upstairs. “Hey, have you seen my knickers?”
Hari looks at me sheepishly.
“I know I had a pair. They’re not on the floor.”
Hari whispers, “I thought you’d gone out.”
“I went for a run. Who is she?”
“An old friend.”
“So you must know her name.”
“Cheryl.”
“Cheryl Taylor!” (She’s a bottle blonde who works behind the bar at the White Horse). “She’s older than I am.”
“No, she’s not.”
“What on earth do you see in her?”
“What difference does that make?”
“I’m interested.”
“Well, she has assets.”
“Assets?”
“The best.”
“You think so?”
“Absolutely.”
“What about Phoebe Griggs?”
“Too small.”
“Emma Shipley?”
“Saggy.”
“Mine?”
“Very funny.”
Cheryl is coming down the stairs. I can hear her rummaging in the sitting room. “Found them,” she shouts.
She arrives in the kitchen still adjusting the elastic beneath her skirt.
“Oh, hello,” she squeaks.
“Cheryl, this is my sister, Alisha.”
“Nice to see you again,” she says, not meaning it.
The silence seems to stretch out. I might never talk again. Finally I excuse myself and go upstairs for a shower. With any luck Cheryl will be gone by the time I come down.
Hari has been living with me for the past two months because it’s closer to university. He is supposed to be safeguarding my virtue and helping pay the mortgage but he’s four weeks behind in his rent and using my spare room as a knocking shop.
My legs are tingling. I love the feeling of lactic acid leaking away. I look in the mirror and pull back my hair. Yellow flecks spark in my irises like goldfish in a pond. There are no wrinkles. Black don’t crack.
My “assets” aren’t so bad. When I was running competitively I was always pleased they were on the small side and could be tightly bound in a sports bra. Now I wouldn’t mind being a size bigger so I could have a cleavage.
Hari yells up the stairs. “Hey, sis, I’m taking twenty from your purse.”
“Why?”
“Because when I take it from strangers they get angry.”
“Tomorrow.”
“You said that yesterday.”
The front door closes. The house is quiet.
Downstairs, I pick up Cate’s note again, resting it between my fingertips. Then I prop it on the table against the salt and pepper shakers, staring at it for a while.
Cate Elliot. Her name still makes me smile. One of the strange things about friendship is that time together isn’t canceled out by time apart. One doesn’t erase the other or balance it on some invisible scale. You can spend a few hours with someone and they will change your life, or you can spend a lifetime with a person and remain unchanged.
We were born at the same hospital and raised in Bethnal Green in London’s East End although we managed to more or less avoid each other for the first thirteen years. Fate brought us together, if you believe in such
