for no reason other than that she likes

Margie opens her window and greets the morning cat, 'Hey, you,' she says. The cat, of course, does not reply. Instead he stretches out, pulls himself up on his toes, regards the branches of a plane tree with a nearly palpable hunger. There could be a bird up there, he thinks. Margie leans her elbow on the sill. 'I’ve seen you somewhere before, haven’t I.'

'Of course not' she reminds herself.

Hari eats: nutri-grain muesli bars and tubs of glittery powder bought in bulk from the health food supermarket. 

A list of things in the room:

-Margie.

-Picasso print, crumpled.

-Alexander Pope book; Rape of the Lock. Another of those books bought but never read. Instead,

-chemistry textbooks.

-The clock, which looks exactly like Greg Brady’s.

-a photo on the screensaver, Margie and some emo kids at the traffic lights on King street. She’s not feeling a part of that, since, at the time, she was dressed in cowboy boots a skirt with paisley patterns all over it. People called her a hippie, but if, If she really had the money, and a wardrobe big enough, she would dress in white lace and wear crinolines.

She repeated and repeated and repeated to herself: you are a—

His name sounded like a soft toy—that’s right Harry, short for Hariharan. What was it again that he was doing? She thought she knew. Must be.. hmmm. Well, if you really want to know, don’t idealise me, I’ve warned you against that. Not only because it makes me anxious and guilty, uncomfortable and objectified, but because although I know I can do better, I don’t need someone to tell me. You need someone to tell you, you’re a great big pushover, aren’t you. I felt shocked and ashamed that you could be so naive as to actually think that I could find this funny. Do you think I am some sort of a joke, something that you can just project your desire onto? You’re projecting, and therefore over-identifying too much with me, you’re connected in a way that is unhealthy and limiting. Until you can learn to do this, you’re stuffed, Harry.

‘Harry, you gotta learn to let go,’

‘what?’

‘Oh for chrissake. Look—’ She puffs out her remaining breath. She laughs.

‘Look, I’m sorry.’ Hari’s eyes have glazed over; he’s looking at the shadow of a geranium on the wall. He imagines that he can see the shapes of little birds in their mass of cut-out shapes.

They congregate together like piled stones, their legs splaying in the air. He laughs to himself. ‘Look, don’t worry about it.’

‘You never do anything by halves, do you Harry?’

‘I know’ Smiling broadly. It looks as if he’s smiling to her, but in fact it’s to himself. 

‘Are you going out for some more milk?’

‘Could you remember to get some bin-liners at the supermarket?’

‘There’s this little island called Zaglav,'

The light falls like a splitting wings across his features.

Are you coming to the pub later?

No, sorry darling, I’ve got work to do.

Oh yes, almost forgot about that. Um, did we get a cat?

What?

The cat, he’s just killed a bird.

Shit.

Yeah.

Ok, so, the draft for my current book on discourse; basically I’d love your opinion.

Sponger, leech, parasite, freeloader…

Pulled up by your own bootstrings, you are.

‘Did you know that you were free-associating just now?’

‘What, you mean, over free-associating? Oh yes, of course, the penis phase.’

He quit smoking, but for some reason, it still affected his smile.

--