It’s easier to say in a roundabout way | Martha Lane

Mick’s knees were damp. His muscles seized, and bones creaked, as he tried to raise himself from the ground. Cold fingers split, mud-caked and sore. He’d dug all night and boy could he tell. He froze as headlights scanned him, stretched his shadow to creep over the terraced houses that surrounded.

Damn.

The car circled without slowing. Hopefully, the driver was too tired, or too eager to get home, to pay much attention beyond brake and accelerate. Mick pulled his hat past his ears just in case. He really wasn’t supposed to be there. 

As long as they don’t tell anyone.

He picked up his shovel and heavy-duty sack. He needed a drink.

Last night’s tea had gone cold, left on the kitchen counter alongside two uneaten biscuits on a floral side plate. Annie pressed the bin lid, tried twice before it opened, and dropped the biscuits in. She’d always hated custard creams.

The evening drinks, as much a ritual as brushing her teeth, had been made even though she couldn’t pinpoint the last time she’d seen Mick hold a mug. She tipped the muddy brew down the plughole. An unpleasant smell dislodged from the drainpipe.

He definitely said he was going to fix that.

Come on. When would he have had the time? Between his late-night homecomings and grumbled hellos in the doorway? Annie scrubbed the mugs a bit too long and a bit too hard, foamy water splashing down her front.

Maybe it would be best if he didn’t come back at all.

The sun’s rays started to peek through the blind, sliced the light into lemons. Mick startled. He was stiff, hot, still in filthy clothes. He’d woken on the sofa, covered in biscuit crumbs. A midnight feast snaffled as soon as he’d come in through the door. Custard creams. Annie’s favourite. He didn’t much care for them. 

Too sweet.

He dragged himself up the stairs, heavy boots dropping clumps of mud as he climbed. Aware of how loud his steps were, he slowed to a stop. There was no morning bustle of a body upstairs. No running water or opening and closing of drawers. Wood sliding to a thud. No humming along to the radio. He opened the door to their bedroom. The mustard curtains still wide open and the duvet neatly tucked down. 

Annie’s breath bloomed in front of her. She watched her feet as they stomped on the tarmac. She imagined an awkwardly large hot drink clutched in her sparrow feet hands. Whipped cream waterfalling over the side. She would buy a gingerbread man too, gumdrop buttons glistening like frost. No more tepid tea for her.

She turned the corner and faltered. Like a firework erupting from the concrete, a roundabout decorated with flowers. Daffodils, ferns, azaleas, lilies. A mismatch of plants bristling with colour. Everything she would’ve chosen if their house had more than a gravel path and a dusty yard. A sunshine yellow bench was perched in the centre. Annie pulled her primrose coloured coat tighter. 

Maybe just a short sit?

.

She stayed suspended one foot off the kerb, all thoughts of hot chocolate gone. Not sure what people would think. Silly old fool sitting on a roundabout, probably. 

‘Go on.’

Annie cried out. Mick appeared at her side; the back of this hard-calloused hands brushing against hers. 

Go on, it’s for you.

He took her arm and led her to the bench, picking something purple and pretty on the way. She sniffed the flower, almost giggled. Together they sat, Mick’s ruddy swollen knuckles flecked with yellow paint.

Martha Lane is a writer by the sea. Her flash has been published by Sledgehammer, Perhappened, Bandit, Reflex fiction, and Ellipsis Zine among others. Balancing too many projects at once is her natural state. Tweets @poor_and_clean