101 Words

Jeff lists his non-drinking days in a worn leather-bound notebook he’d recently found at the bottom of a drawer. The book had been a birthday present from his now ex-wife.

At sunset he flicks to the page containing the list, grimacing when he sees five days have passed since the last date he’d written. Tomorrow will be July and he needs one more entry to beat last month’s tally of alcohol-free days.

He checks the clock and waits. At midnight—the first time he can be sure he’s cleared the previous day’s hurdle—he uncaps his pen and records the victory.

Primi: pasta in a white sauce. Secondi: sausages and salad. Dessert: local prickly pear. The pears had been blanched, peeled, presented in their own split skins. The plated fruits resembled tiny human hearts in green shells. From afar, they could’ve been actual flowers, but up close, they were disturbingly anatomical.

At the end of the meal, the woman at the end of the table discovered that the wine taken in conjunction with the pear produced a certain fizzle on the tongue that echoed into the throat. She passed the remaining Shiraz and coaxed her many lunch mates into trying the experiment.

The flowers arrived. A sensational arrangement of all her favourites; perfumed roses, delicate freesias, sky-blue cornflowers, striking irises, and sun-bright yellow tulips, interwoven with a background of statice and subtle greenery. The perfect anniversary gift.

She knew every flower name, in English and Latin. This used to stir mild annoyance in him as she’d reel them off in garden centres, at friends’ places, and whenever there were flowers on TV. He wouldn’t feign interest now.

He read the note attached. His name only.

Later, alone at her graveside, he wished he’d bought these for her, just once, when she was here.

Just home from school, the boy walks into his mom’s room, where she’s on her bed, texting.

“Mom, I made a girl laugh today,” he says.

Not looking up, she says, “You didn’t say anything nasty, did you? Am I gonna get a call from the school?”

He chuckles. “No, Mama, just being silly.”

Still looking down, she says, “Well, you’re a funny kid. Maybe you’re finally making some friends.”

“Maybe,” he says.

He did make a girl laugh. Several of them, when two boys pulled his pants down and punched his stomach. They laughed even harder when he started crying.

Cindy cooed when the parcel arrived, sure that Mephistopheles, her cat, would love his new sunglasses.

The instructions fluttered to the floor, unread.

Catacles: Domestic Demon Detectors!

“Here, kitty!” Cindy called.

Lens Colours Explained:

-Smoked grey—Felis catus.
-Sulphurous yellow—Minor Demon—IMMEDIATE appeasing behaviour recommended.
-Sooty Red—Major Demon—Run away or recite last rites (see overleaf).

“Adorable! A quick selfie, then I’ll fuss you.”

“Ooh, yellow lenses, cute, one more photo, then you can have some treats.”

“Red lenses? Must get them on Instagram. Oh you’re hissing…Aaaargh!”

Disclaimer: Manufacturer takes no responsibility for injuries sustained during demon detection.

I’ve always told you dear Rupert that you shouldn’t smoke the way you did and you didn’t even go see Doctor Vasquez because you thought that doctors are glorified mechanics and plumbers that fix you for a fee and I told you at least to wear a face mask because of the pandemic of this treacherous Chinese virus and you didn’t listen to me because you are a stubborn old man and you told me dear Maggie we all have to die someday and then I started to cough and now I am talking to you from this lonely dark casket.