Tuesday, 24 July 2007

66: lost dog

When I get back to the shop floor, I try and concentrate.

The Turtle is hovering around behind me, ten metres away.

Peach fountain, she says.

Yep, I say.

Quickly, she says.

Carmella’s tita, Lucinda, will feed me up. She will feed me until I swell and explode. It will be nice. We will laugh about it afterwards.

I try and arrange the peaches.

The other fruit and vegetables, meanwhile, are sorry-looking.

Browning.

Wizening.

I pause for a second to look at them.

Crack.

Ow.

*

I clock out and get my coat from the cloakroom. Carmella’s coat is gone.

On the way home, I pass a sign for a lost dog sellotaped to a telegraph pole.

Lost dog, it says. Last seen on Friday. Brown Irish mast-hound. Gammy leg. Answers to ‘Pippet-Face’. Ten pounds reward.

I get home.

I go and look in all the rooms.

Ian is still not home.

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