Honey(11)

But she’ll make him wait.

“I’m hungry.” She pushes him back. “Help me finish dinner.”

She’s up and walking to the kitchen. He groans, following.

She pulls down a pan and, ignoring his hand on her arse, chops three spring onions and a clove of garlic. As he is telling her this and that, something about his co-workers, she fries the onion and garlic with three sprigs of thyme.

“Open that, would you.”

Now her hand on his arse.

The kidney beans are added to the pan with a big helping of salt. He squeezes her between him and the sink. They kiss. A cup and a half of rice goes in. They kiss.

“Stop, it’ll burn.” She adds coconut milk, white and thick, to coat the beans.

“My brother always makes this.” Ethan’s up behind her.

The milk is about to bubble up but she doesn’t care.

They kiss.



* * *





When all is hot she dishes the food up high on two chipped plates. She turns the desk in her room into a table. They talk, they eat. Yrsa even lights a candle. Family, futures, pasts. The goat is rich and sweet. “So that’s why I went into law.” The wine sour and cool. “No, my parents are still together, I used to want them to divorce so I could have two Christmases.” Their talk takes them to the bed. Their touching makes Yrsa stand up and close the curtains.

Ethan sits against the headboard.

“Take your top off first.”

She obliges, slowly.

“And now the jeans.”

She obliges, slower.

His eyes run up and down the length of her, the width of her.

She comes toward him and lowers herself onto him, feeling him harden.

“God, you’re beautiful.”

She bites his lip and he undoes her bra. She leans to the drawer for a condom and he unbuckles his jeans. Pushing him back onto the bed, she tears at the wrapper.

“Do we have to?”

“What?”

He gestures toward the condom.

“I’m not too keen on having your kids, so—”

He pushes up and flips her over so her back is on the bed; kissing down her stomach; kissing between her legs. She moans, feeling around her for the condom.

“The things I’m going to do to you.” Ethan stands with all his clothes off. He pulls her pants down her thighs, to her ankles, and is back on top of her.

“I can’t find it.”

“We don’t need it.”

“Like I said, I—”

“I pull out properly.” His words are muffled, his face between her breasts.

“Ethan, stop.” She’s gone through this show with too many men. “Put a condom on or get out.”

“Okay, jeez, chill. Why you gotta get so aggressive about it.”

“Nice.”

Like a pin to a balloon—she pulls her pants back up.

“No, come on, why you gotta be like that?”

“I can’t be bothered with this.”

“Really?” He stands there, naked, deflating.

Yrsa is already getting dressed. “Yeah, really.”

“Well, I wasn’t in the mood anyway.” He’s misbuttoning his shirt back up.

“Right.” Yrsa grabs an old T-shirt out of the drawer, pulling her braids up into a ponytail as she leaves the bedroom. She waits for him by the front door.

“Nice seeing you.”

She slams the door.

The flat rings silent.

But she’s calm, at ease with herself.

He is no longer important.

Returning to the kitchen she turns the heat back up on what’s left of the curry. She closes the kitchen window, lets her hair down.

Yesterday, late afternoon, she walked by Richardson’s house. Number 36 off Jesus Green. She knows this because she once walked by that way with Nina, and Nina stopped to say, “That’s Richardson’s house.” A slim Victorian terrace with a mint green front door. If you stand at the right angle across the street you can peer through to a large kitchen extension and garden.

Yrsa removes the curry’s lid. The kitchen starts to fill again with the smell of spice.

She stopped, and watched, and wondered if she would feel anything. There was a scooter outside, the gate off its latch, and in the kitchen, flowers. Tulips, freesias, hyacinths.

Taking down a bowl, Yrsa spoons the rest of the curry into it. It’s the fatty pieces of goat that are left.

She’d smoked two cigarettes, watching the house. It was empty, ordinary. The flowers each in their own vase.

She slides the bowl of curry toward her. Picking up a piece of meat, both wet and firm, she eats it with her fingers. It’s richer than earlier, saltier. Eating another piece, she has to catch sauce running down her chin.

There was something mesmerizing about the house, about her part in things.

Her mouth fills with heat, but she lifts the bowl and drinks the gravy. The chili kicking back at her.

You have to do right by the dead.

She had wanted to see the wife. But the wife never showed.

Yrsa tips the bowl back further, drinking it down. It’s how she remembers her Grandmother finishing the goat, sweating, a glass of milk beside her.





III