The
sudden persistence of his landlord’s electric alarm sounds briefly thin through
the wall, and is extinguished. From their conversation the night before, ache1
realises it is now just after 5.30 am.
ache1
(conjuring moisture from the walls of her mouth): God alive, how does he
do it? How does he do it?
Silence.
ache1:
Snooze?
her
query answered by the sounds now emanating from the adjacent room.
ache1:
We’ll get up once he’s had his breakfast.
Skunk
(laughing): So we will. He eh, no he eats at work anyway. Actually, he almost,
it’s rare he eats here at all.
ache1:
Does he have to pay for that?
Skunk:
To be honest I’ve never asked. Probably, though. I mean, it’s, he just works
there, it’s not like he owns the place.
Some
hours later, and they are themselves both downstairs in the kitchen. On a whim
they are each dressed in the other’s clothes, ache1 bare-legged in a
light blue long-sleeved Levi’s t-shirt, Brother Skunk shirtless, wearing a pair
of red pyjama bottoms that end at least six inches above his ankles.
The
air is scented with the residual aroma of the toast they are eating dry, having
yesterday forgotten to replenish their depleted provision of butter and
marmalade both.
ache1
has just finished speaking of returning home ill from school, early enough for
the house to still retain that smell of the family having recently breakfasted.
Skunk:
That’s... I’ve actually, actively done that before, and for that very
reason too. There’s something about coming back to the house when there’s that
smell in the air. There’s, something about it makes me feel... secure, or
comforted or something. I don’t know,
shaking
his head
Skunk:
I don’t know.
She
understands him enough by now to know he is not speaking specifically about the
toast, and in her attempt to locate and rescue him says
ache1:
Well, the smell of toast is very persua-, not persuasive, what’s the
word I want? Seductive? The smell of toast is, it’s ah, smelling it makes you
want it.
Skunk:
Smell toast, want toast.
ache1:
“Smell toast, want toast”, that’s ahm... Son, you should work in marketing.
Breathing
through her mouth she accidentally releases some tiny dry crumbs of toast that
are for only a second visibly afloat upon a pocket of light in the air between
them, and are gone.
Suddenly
she is bent over laughing, her palms flat down to the inside of each knee.
Skunk:
That em
again
shaking his head
Skunk:
When I worked in the restaurant, there was a guy who, that was his thing, em...
with
his hand stationary he taps an index finger off the top of his thumb.
Skunk:
Between shifts if there was time we used to make Melba toast. Ac- do you know
what Melba toast even is? Like, really thin... toast, basically. And
we’d make it by toasting bread, and then taking a, a knife across, through the
middle
his
hand now palm up chops the air before him
Skunk:
and then, you would rub the bread, that, that, the side of the bread that
wasn’t toasted, you would rub that on a board to wear it down further,
ache1
regards him with a look of mock fascination suggesting this might not exactly
be the most interesting story he has ever related.
Skunk:
No, no, come on, this is, you’re learning something here. Or...
He
reaches over to place his open palm squarely upon the centre of her face,
gently pushing her away as he continues,
Skunk:
So you would rub the toast around to thin it out, make it as thin as you could
without wearing right through the bread, and then toast that side. But, and
this is where I was aiming for, this guy there, he would do this thing where
he’d crunch up some toast in his mouth and then breathe, he’d, it was more
like, sometimes he’d pant, or sometimes exhale really long breaths, and this
sort of toast detritus would just float away from him. It was like em, like...
snapping
his fingers for the word
Skunk:
..like fireworks!
ache1:
Fireworks! Fireworks of breadcrumbs! Skunk, that. Is. Magnificent. Okay, so...
let’s ahm, let’s us make ourselves some... what was it toast?
Skunk:
Melba toast.
In
the course of their repeated attempts at its making they manage to destroy
slice after slice of the loaf, in either its initial or subsequent toasting,
but particularly in their inability to cleanly sever the half-grilled bread;
even then, time and again ache1 manages to rub clean through both of
her pieces, an ineptitude Brother Skunk occasionally consolidates with his own,
repeatedly and accidentally burning almost everything beneath the grill.
Skunk:
This is ridiculous. I do not recall this ever being this difficult. If this em,
looking
at the piles of rejected toast
Skunk:
Jesus, we’re going to have to buy him another loaf.
ache1:
This isn’t your bread? Why are we, fuck, Skunk, if I’d known that
Finally,
they arrive at a point where there is enough for them to at least crunch and
breathe loose fragments at each other.
ache1
(her voice distorted from holding her mouth ajar): Skunk. Skunk.
Skunk
(likewise compromised): A second, a second.
the
sunlit section of air between them busy with a falling debris of toast motes.
Having
exhausted their supplies, they begin cleaning up.
ache1
(shaking her head): Weird.
Skunk:
Excuse me, but weren’t you just, you were also engaged in this activity.
ache1:
No, ahm it’s it’s just weird to think of you doing this with other people.
Skunk:
No no. No. I didn’t do it. It wasn’t, it wasn’t me, I
had nothing to do with that
and
then sensing within his speech some half-remembered rhythm, Brother Skunk
begins to passively channel those words he knows are not his own, overcome by a
sudden hysterical impulse beyond his control
Skunk:
I dont. I dont! I dont hate it! I dont hate it!
his
face taken over now so totally by its current expression ache1 finds
it damn near impossible to recall how he had looked only seconds before.
