Lost

Saturday morning is honey and blue berries on crisp, golden toast. Saturday morning is gazing at Morgan’s knotty brown hair while she sings and makes tea. It’s mid-November and already the days are getting hotter.

‘Drink up, sport,’ she laughs and hands me an old chipped mug.

‘Thank you.’ I kiss her lightly on the cheek as she peers over my shoulder. The sports pages are spread in front of me. ‘Warner’s doing OK for himself,’ I tell her, though she doesn't care much for the cricket and only looks at the pictures to humour me.

‘Good for him,’ she says as she pinches the weekend entertainment section for herself. I go to ask her what shows are on tonight when my phone dings. I glance at the little envelope briefly.

Hey, we need to—

‘Anyone important?’ she asks me.

‘What’s on tonight?’ I ask her instead, weakly pretending not to have heard.

I feel her steady gaze considering me.

‘Not really,’ she finally says. ‘No, not really.’

My phone dings again. The little envelope seems to fill the screen, the flashing green light warning me not to—

Alex, we need to meet up.
D.

—read it.

*

Sunday morning is peanut butter on browned wholemeal. Sunday morning is watching Morgan lug old banana boxes with strained arms and tight lips. I offer to help but her sharp eyes stare at me coldly.

‘You might break something,’ she scolds. ‘I think you've done enough.’

Her lips form that cold, hard line again.

‘I'm sorry,’ I manage to whisper. Morgan blows at the strands of hair matted to her face in the sticky heat. She shrugs weakly, and pushes out of the kitchen. A car horn blares from out the front.

‘It’s not what you think,’ I yell after her.

The front door slams and shudders in its frame.

‘It’s not what you think,’ I tell the quiet room, waiting for the emptiness to close in and suffocate me. The slamming door echoes and rings in my ears, so I slump into the couch and wait for it all to pass.

*

Monday morning is blackened fruit loaf in the rubbish bin. Monday morning is an empty kitchen and a freak spring storm raging outside. There’s a little bird hopping frantically on the window sill, fluffing its tiny chest out to shake off the rain. It knocks against the glass once and flies off into the storm. I try to imagine I'm that little bird, flying to her window and tapping lightly at the glass, waiting for her to let me back in.

I hope she’s indoors, I hope she’s warm.

Don’t think about her, Trish told me over the phone.

The quiet likes to remind me though.

Well, it is your own fault, she snapped.

A soft rapping makes me open my eyes. The little bird is hopping soggily on the sill. The wind rattles the roof and the heavy rain thunders against the corrugated iron. The little bird shivers, its chirps lost in the wind and rain. It’s pity that makes me cross the room and unlatch the window. The kitchen bench is immediately drenched in the downpour but the little bird flutters inside and chirps appreciatively.

‘House rules,’ I tell it as it flaps from counter to shelf to fridge, ‘no shitting on the bed sheets or couches.'

It warbles in response and flies out of the room. I follow it lazily, up the hallway and then back down. It finds its way into the bathroom and there it hops on the bench, startled at its own reflection. I watch it a good while, standing there while it flutters and hops in circles.

‘You’re lost, aren't you fella?’ It settles on the window sill, fluffing out its delicate chest. It shouldn't have let it in, birds aren't meant to be in here.

I shouldn't have trapped it.

Maybe Morgan was the bird all along.