Peach by Emma Glass

Author:Emma Glass
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781408886670
Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
Published: 2017-10-05T09:13:48+00:00

Suggestive Jesting

Mam and Dad dive out of the door as soon as I open it. Thanks, babe, Mam says, kissing my cheek roughly. We’re going dancing! She puts her hand on her hip, hitches up her knee. She is so happy. She looks so silly, I can’t help but smile. Have a great time, I say. Dad says, You’re in charge now, Peach. Make sure you lock the door. He pats my head once with his big hand. They wave as they walk swiftly down the street and I can hear Mam saying, Quick, we’ll miss the bus. I shut the door. I don’t lock it. It’s dark in the hallway but I can see light under the living-room door. I should lock it. So I do.

I don’t know what to do with myself. After silently dancing around the house in my pyjamas for a really long time and dancing silently beside Baby asleep in his cot and feeling silly, I go into the living room and decide to watch TV. I think I should study but I’m too distracted. A bit happy and unfocused. Loose and juicy. I laugh. I switch the lights on in the living room, the low lamps that glow. I go straight to the sofa, but glance at the mantel. I see letters. A lot of letters. I pick up the pile and settle on the sofa with one leg curled under myself. I count the letters. Seven. All for me. All in the same kind of envelope. All slightly stained, all scrawled in the same scrawling gnarly loathsome lettering. All. All with the same grease. All with that same sickening scent. One envelope has a Post-it note stuck on the front. From Dad. These came for you, Peach, more love letters. Love Dad, it said. I want to slap him. No I don’t. I used to wait. I remember. I think about my penfriend. What was her name? Tiny. I used to wait. I used to write to Tiny once a week. No. Once a month. And I would sign the letter and lick the envelope with love. I was eleven. And I would send the letter. And I would wait for a reply immediately. Sit by the letter box and wait for a reply. I forget who stopped writing first. I’m thinking of all this, staring at the letters in my hands through eyes that can’t see. They’re bleared up. Full up with tears. I’m hot and full up with fucking frustration. Rage. My arms are shaking. Hatred coats my tongue. Fuzz on bad fruit. I rip open the first envelope. My eyes are flooded and don’t see the obscenity. I rip the next, the next, the next, the next, the next, the last. And before I know, I’m sat in snow. Paper flakes flutter. As they fall into my hot rage I hear them singe and sizzle.

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