‘They’ll let you down’ she says. ‘If there’s one thing
you’ll find out it’s that they don’t care a jot.’
I take another sip of gin. ‘What?’
I say. She’s plump, the way some are, feeding
on canapés and disappointment. ‘It
was funny cigarettes first then the car,
he never talks to me and that guitar’
s the only time I hear him cry. He hit
me once,’ she says, ‘Amanda’s gone and liv-
ing with a black – what kind of girl is that?
And Kenny never writes,’ she says, grown fat
with hoarded hurts, ‘just takes the shirts I give.’
‘Perhaps you never really knew them,’ I say.
‘You’ll learn alright,’ she says and turns away.
Carol Markwell
