You Be Mother

by Meg Mason

she turned to look out the window and noticed with dismay that the Opera House was tiled like a men’s toilet, not uniformly smooth and white like cake icing, the way it looked on TV.

Her head dropped to her shoulder and she wished, in no order of preference, for a Twix, a fag, her mother, any mother, something to read, an engagement ring and different shorts.

I always used to hope it would make me a bit mysterious and tragic, you know like someone in a sad novel. But people get bored of feeling sorry for you and decide you’re just a weirdo.

‘In life, dear, when one wants something, one simply does it and waits for the practicalities to arrange themselves.

The first time she’d done it, her cheeks began to burn and her mouth ran with saliva, forcing her to swallow again and again as the search results came up. It was a habit ecstatic in its agony, a simultaneous relief of pressure and a painful punishment. Almost, she thought, like self-harm.

Life is sometimes sad and dull but there are currants in the cake.