Camille?

Kurt Kobielski

The night before, I’d let myself be persuaded and took a ’67 Transit on sale or return. It had character, and we spent the whole morning scratching big black chunks of rust out of the oil tank. There were some bits that needed welding, too. By midday I’d had enough. I went to the park and sat on a bench. It was cool in the shade of the chestnut trees. High above, two planes flew over and drew a frayed cross in the sky.

We should fit it with a new rear axle, I thought, that at least.

A bird came hopping over. It sat in front of me for a while and didn’t do anything. Then it flew off. I leaned back and stretched out my legs. My trousers were covered in oil and there were holes in the knees. Viewed from above, my knees looked like little white faces.

I couldn’t help grinning.

A woman walked past in jeans. The jeans were tight, and her bum quivered or swayed or shimmied, while over on the grass a dog was running backwards and forwards. His tongue flapped alongside his mouth, like a pink sleeve I once saw dangling out of the window of a school bus.

I was tired, but in an agreeable sort of way. Nothing hurt, and I wasn’t hungry or thirsty.

Maybe I could keep the Transit, I thought.

There was a rustling in the tree above me, and immediately afterwards a little white blob of shit landed right beside me on the bench. Splat! it went, and in that moment I realized: today will have been the happiest day of your life.

And it was.

Connie Busse

The sun on the window. That’s where it starts. I should have cleaned it, I think, should have given all the windows another thorough clean before we set off. Too late now. The windows are like magnets for dust. God knows how it manages to stick to that smooth glass surface. And leave streaks. It always leaves these streaks.

Fred’s hairy leg rubs against mine. He knows how this works. Not too hard, but not too soft, either. Definitely not too soft. No arousal so early in the morning. It’s only through this non-­arousal that arousal might in fact be possible. That’s the unspoken agreement. He places the sole of his foot over my cold toes like a heat pack. He gives me an innocent look, face half-­hidden under the covers, and moves his chin rhythmically. He looks like a puppy. The scratching of beard on fabric is our morning music. He says: I’d like to bury myself in you. I say: I should have cleaned the windows. He presses himself against me and whispers in my ear: There are other things we could do.

Then Maya and the dog come running in. She’s naked; her nightdress has got lost somewhere between here and the bathroom. She stops, looks at us, doesn’t understand, doesn’t want to. Sunspots quiver in her hair. Finally she laughs and throws herself onto the bed with us. Are we going today? Yes! Really today? Yes! The dog jumps up and down at the end of the bed, barking like mad.