Each time Anahera comes back from swimming she’s wet and shiny with new thinkings: ‘We have to ration our food, Cynthia,’ and, ‘Do you want me to call your father? No, you’re right, that would be inappropriate.’ Mostly Cynthia isn’t worried.
‘You still look real good,’ Anahera says one night while Cynthia’s in bed watching her cook. ‘Like when we left.’ She flexes a leg, in Cynthia’s dad’s navy blue pyjamas.
‘You too,’ Cynthia says, and it’s true. Anahera gets in with her, and hands her a bowl of something orange. ‘You’re good with cans.’ Cynthia gestures with her spoon. Anahera’s weights shift in the ceiling, gently but with noise. They must be dangerous, Cynthia thinks. This is how it must have felt for Anahera’s husband, being married to her; risky and exhilarating. Cynthia doesn’t mention it, instead she asks, ‘How do you think a shark’s stomach must feel, on the inside?’ She imagines her own legs contained with Anahera’s in the pyjama pants, and their breasts and arms buttoned in together under the shirt.
‘I think they must stretch,’ Anahera says, which is certainly right.
11.
Cynthia leans in, with her mouth slightly open and her eyes a little popped, as if the tail of a fish were poking through her lips, and the fish itself were behind them pummelling her cheeks. She pushes forward, in need, with her face passive and open, held in quiet. She touches her own face, blinking for clear eyes. Her lips feel like they’re plumpening, warm and tingling against the air.
It must make her even prettier, this leaning, this swaying in her body and blood. Pride swells her further. She thinks, Here, I feel myself, holds herself, and wishes to hold herself out for someone else. I’m so warm, she thinks, who could not want this warmth of me; to take me home, and make a home for me, a home of me. They’re already there, in their new shared home, so it must have started—the looking, and leaning—the growing towards each other’s light.
She touches her own warmth and softness, and doesn’t see a need for it to be a secret. Still, she waits till Anahera’s asleep.
Cynthia loves herself—it might be that. It’s not so easy to tell the difference between self-love and a firm expectation of love from someone else.
12.
It’s the middle of the night. ‘Cynthia,’ Anahera says. ‘Your dog spewed on me.’
‘What? Sorry!’ Cynthia says. She wriggles her hands around, trying to find her phone for light, but keeps hitting parts of Anahera’s body.
‘Cynthia,’ Anahera says.
‘Yes, Anahera, I know.’
‘Yes, well, I have your dog’s spew all over my stomach.’
Cynthia scrambles her hands faster, and scratches the back of Anahera’s arm. She starts to apologise, but stops. ‘Poor Snot-head, Anahera, I have to think of him too.’ She wriggles her feet, trying to touch him, and kicks his skull. ‘He spewed,’ she says.
‘Yeah, he spewed on me.’ Anahera gets up.
‘I know! That’s how I know he spewed!’ Cynthia moves down the bed to find him, and feels suddenly like he’s running away. Anahera doesn’t say anything, but goes outside. Cynthia hears the splash and slap of her wetting her shirt and leaving it on the side of the boat. She lies completely still, and after a while Snot-head snores lightly. Anahera comes back in to stand above the bed, in a different shirt, looking down. Cynthia can’t see her eyes, but she sees her teeth, wet and white, in flashes as she speaks.
‘This is probably not ideal for your dog.’
‘No.’
Anahera waits, and so does Cynthia.
‘So, just let him go, then?’ Cynthia asks.
Anahera says nothing, and Cynthia’s heart wrenches. She pulls at the skin of her neck and looks up. New, dim light falls through the window, on Anahera. She looks back. ‘You don’t like him,’ Cynthia says, pulling in breath. ‘You never did, and now he’s puked on you.’
Anahera looks at the duvet, and the sheet, and pulls them back one at a time. Cynthia presses hard against the wall to give her space.
13.
She wakes in light, to Anahera’s humming. Right as she moves, Snot-head’s on her face. His eyes come very close, and when she blinks he does too. She pushes him off, and sits up. Anahera turns with a warm bowl of porridge.
‘I’m sorry,’ Cynthia says.
‘Me too.’ Anahera puts some food in Snot-head’s bowl and gets back in bed. ‘Has he done that before, since we came?’
Cynthia shrugs, but Anahera’s waiting. ‘One other time, I guess.’
‘Okay,’ Anahera says, and her fingers are in Cynthia’s hair.
Cynthia hasn’t washed it, she pulls away. ‘Dogs are really tough animals, and they love their owners.’
‘He’s real cute,’ Anahera says. ‘Nearly as cute as you.’
Cynthia puts some porridge in her mouth and quietly swallows it. Then she says, ‘Are you even committed to this relationship?’
‘What?’ Anahera pauses with her spoon mid-air.
‘With me and Snot-head. You haven’t once suggested we photograph each other in the undies. You never pat him. Then he spews on you a little bit one time and—’
Anahera makes an interrupting noise, but then doesn’t say anything. A moment, and she starts speaking but stops again. Then, ‘Keep him,’ she says. Immediately her mouth puckers in, surprised and regretful at what it’s said. But she doesn’t take it back, she adds, ‘I thought we were waiting for you to join a site on your phone.’
‘Well, I can’t keep him if you’re going to blame me and think I’m inhumane every time he spews for any reason at all.’ Cynthia presses her head back against the wall, and spills a little of her porridge. Snot-head snuffles at her hip.
‘We’ll do it today, this morning. The photos,’ Anahera says. She touches Cynthia’s leg and her hand’s warm.
‘Only if you feel like it.’ Anahera’s overfed Snot-head, so Cynthia gets up and scoops meat back into the can.
Anahera goes off swimming, and Cynthia looks dumbly down at her dog. Would he prefer to die than spend another night with them, ill, on Baby? She’s got no idea at all. They touch noses. Anahera’s right; he wouldn’t be alone, or even unloved for long. He’d only need to trot up to the right person. It’d take half a day. His eyes and nose are dewy, and he’s excruciatingly soft. He’s not obese, but certainly luxurious in figure.
Cynthia checks the cabin for more spew, and there’s none. When Anahera comes back Cynthia holds her face blank, and says nothing about the dog. Anahera changes clothes and changes the table, then says, ‘Right,’ and smiles. ‘Where do you want me to strip?’
Cynthia shrugs. ‘Over there?’ There’s not much space, but she gestures towards the area in front of the toilet door, adjacent to the kitchen sink. It’s near a window, so there’s good natural light.
Anahera sticks her head in the cabin, looking for the underwear.
‘I don’t know if I’m in the right mood, sorry,’ Cynthia says.
Anahera shakes her bum. ‘Nonsense.’
Cynthia pulls Snot-head closer, and looks out the window. Anahera changes in the bathroom, and emerges in a T-shirt and the lace thong—sickly pink. She’s embarrassed. ‘Um,’ she says, ‘do I just turn around?’
It’ll be fun after all. ‘Yup,’ Cynthia says, suddenly moving and disturbing Snot-head. He trots to the cabin. Anahera turns and takes awkward hold of the bathroom doorknob. Cynthia’s not sure what the right, encouraging thing to say is, but it looks real good. She takes a picture. Anahera takes her shirt off then, so she’s in just a bra, and shifts onto the toes of one of her feet so one butt cheek’s higher than the other. ‘Oh, yup!’ Cynthia says, and takes another shot, then wishes she’d stayed quiet. But it feels weird to be quiet. Anahera turns and Cynthia says, ‘Gosh!’ then feels worse. She shades her eyes like the sun’s in them, and squints.
‘Alright?’ Anahera asks.
‘Oh, oh yeah!’ Cynthia says. ‘We’ll roll in it. Money!’ She takes one last photo, from the front,
clipping out Anahera’s face. Anahera laughs, relieved, and goes for her shorts and shirt. Photos in just one pair aren’t enough, but Cynthia says nothing. They’re only starting.
‘Sorry if I made you uncomfortable.’
Anahera snorts gently, dressed now, and sits down to ruffle Cynthia’s hair. ‘You’re doing it too.’
‘I’ll get rid of him,’ Cynthia says.
Anahera’s quiet, but they’re sitting side by side, and Cynthia can feel through her arm that she’s pleased. Neither of them looks to the cabin, where he’s asleep. Cynthia shifts her eyes from her knees, suddenly, and stands up. ‘Right then!’ She gets the red underwear from the cabin, and changes in the bathroom. She adjusts the lace so there’s no hair poking through, and pushes the tap-pump three times to wash her face in salty water. Then, she strides out.
Anahera’s sitting on the bed in the still of the boat, waiting. She looks away from the window, at Cynthia, and Cynthia bursts into tears.
‘Come here,’ Anahera says, patting the seat beside her.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Cynthia says. ‘My face won’t be in the shots anyway.’
Anahera’s face scrunches deeper with concern, but Cynthia ignores her and gets her phone. She explains how to work the camera. Anahera must already know, but she says nothing, nods, and takes a test shot of the kettle.
Cynthia makes a big smile, and gives two thumbs up. Then she stands and turns around, sticking her bum out. She waits, and Anahera doesn’t take the photo. Snot-head’s in the cabin with his ears flicked up; he’s heard her sobbing. His eyes are wet and his wrinkles look particularly saggy. Cynthia only glances at him, then faces the wall again.
‘Look, we can do this another time,’ Anahera says.
‘But we haven’t done it another time ever!’ Cynthia splutters. She doesn’t move, gets herself quiet, and at last hears the camera go. That done, she turns and looks dully through the window behind Anahera’s head, while she gets a photo from the front.
‘There are other ways for us to make money,’ Anahera says.
‘What’s wrong with this way?’ Cynthia asks, holding her body still and barely moving even her mouth.
‘Keep your dog,’ Anahera says.
‘Take the photo, Anahera.’
The clicking noise.
‘Take another one.’
Anahera does.
‘I’m not going to wear any other pairs today,’ Cynthia says. ‘I actually can’t be bothered.’ Anahera says nothing, which enrages Cynthia, but she holds in her rage, saying nothing either. Snot-head makes a little dry-heave in the cabin.
They both agree the milk smells fine and Anahera makes Cynthia a hot chocolate with it. She doesn’t say anything more about the photos, the dog or money, she just watches Cynthia slurp up the drink. Snot-head watches too, from the floor.
‘We’ll do it tomorrow,’ Cynthia says toughly, through her milky mouth, and nudges his ribs with her foot so Anahera can see what she means. ‘And we’ll get more groceries.’
Anahera nods, and rubs her back. The photos are good, but Cynthia doesn’t get around to uploading them.
In bed that afternoon Cynthia runs her fingers through the crevices between Snot-head’s wrinkles, and pauses every now and again to feel Anahera’s own fingers wriggling through her hair. They are three spoons, but Anahera coughs and walks outside. Still, when she lies down again Snot-head makes a short lovely snuffle and she and Cynthia laugh against each other, his body a warm perfect nugget at their centre.
For dinner Cynthia asks if she can give him corned beef, even though there’s jellymeat left, and Anahera says yes. After eating it, he walks in three little circles, slowly, then waits under the bed to be lifted up into it.
Anahera doesn’t swim that night, and makes Cynthia a really nice soup. They wrap Snot-head in a blanket and eat it with him outside, under the stars, then a whole packet of Tim Tams.
14.
The next morning Snot-head hasn’t spewed anywhere at all. When Cynthia goes to the toilet, she lets him in after her and Anahera pretends not to notice. She sits with him on her knee after peeing, in privacy. After she’s not sure how long, she stops patting him and forgets where she is.
When she comes back out, the bed’s the table and they sit at it, side by side on the seat. Anahera stays out of the way. Cynthia writes a letter saying all the predictable things: How loved he is, and how lovely. That his name is Snot-head, and can it please not be changed? Also, you’ve always got to feed him less food than he wants.
The water under them is slow but rolling, so the note’s a bit woozy. When she’s done, she puts the paper aside and copies it carefully, pressing the pen down hard with each letter. It still doesn’t look good, but you can see how hard she’s tried by the pen’s indent in the paper.
‘He’s very handsome.’ Anahera puts her face close to his.
Cynthia shrugs.
‘You have me,’ Anahera says.
Cynthia pats him and doesn’t look at her. Anahera always knows how to speak without promising.
Anahera waits a very long moment, then asks, ‘Should we go soon?’
Cynthia says nothing, just affixes her note to his collar with some lace cut from her blouse.
‘I just think, the sooner we drop him off, the more of today he has left to find somebody.’
They feed him and eat as quickly as he does. In her best clothes, Cynthia uses spit and her finger to clean gunk from the corners of his eyes, then her own, and they go.
In the dinghy she holds him tight—he’s breathing deeply too. The water’s slow, but the waves are big and moving up and down as well as towards the wharf. They keep coming up in leaps, and splashing Snot-head’s tender face, so Cynthia takes her sweater off to wrap him up. Anahera pretends not to watch them, and makes a wince-smile when Cynthia catches her.
‘Is it a weekday?’ Cynthia asks.
‘Thursday.’
‘Then we’ll leave him at the school. He likes kids.’
‘That’s a really, really good idea.’
Cynthia squeezes him, and smiles. ‘I’ll show him around a bit, so he knows where he is.’
They go to the supermarket and Cynthia picks Snot-head up and carries him inside. Anahera says nothing, and when Cynthia talks to her dog aloud to see if he wants the most expensive salmon, she stays quiet. ‘Yes, of course you do!’ Cynthia says, and she licks him between his two big eyes. On the checkout guy’s request, she and the dog wait outside while Anahera pays.
She comes back out, hands over the can, and stands waiting. ‘The school’s just over there,’ she gestures across the street, and moves her body in that direction too, suggesting they head off.
‘We’d prefer to do this without you,’ Cynthia says.
Anahera furrows her brow.
Cynthia doesn’t watch her face for long, and busily fondles her dog.
‘I’ll get more groceries then,’ Anahera says, and pats the pocket with her phone and card.
‘Great.’ Cynthia walks off.
‘See you back here at twelve,’ Anahera yells after them. She doesn’t yell a second time, although Cynthia makes sure not to acknowledge hearing. After she’s clipped the lead to his collar and put him down she notices a car’s waiting for them to move; they’re standing in the middle of the road. She’s got no money for a snack.
They walk together past some quite nice houses, and Cynthia points each out to Snot-head. ‘You see, that one’s got a big deck, but the grey is no good. It’ll depress you. Yes, it will. Yes.’ Sometimes he looks where she points, or up at her when she speaks, but mostly he just sniffs the ground. ‘That one’s wood. Bricks, that one. Bricks are warmer. Three cars at that one. Yup, yup. Three cars.’ When they’ve walked around two and half sides of the school they reach a carpark, which they hurry through. Cynthia doesn’t want him hanging around that part of town.
Soon they’re back at the dairy. It must be mid-morning. Over the road there’s a bank at the bott
om of which is the back end of the school sports field. She’ll climb down it, wait for the bell to ring, eat a bit of salmon, and leave him on the field with the rest. The children will emerge yelling, and he’ll trot to them. She’ll be gone up the bank before he turns back to her.
She picks him up and clambers down, much quicker than she’d like to. He quivers in her arms. When she sets him on the ground he’s very pleased, and she sees how small he is. She opens the salmon, and hits it hard against the ground so half falls out. There’s less than she thought, and he eats quicker than she imagined. His share is gone, and he waits. She gets on her knees to kiss him goodbye and tell him not to worry, she loves him, but he won’t look at her face. He gets up on his back legs and rests his front paws on her arm. ‘No,’ she says, careful not to be harsh because she thinks the bell will go soon. ‘In a moment,’ she tells him, and pushes his front legs gently from her arm. She holds him down while she kisses him, and cries a little.
When he hears her, Snot-head pauses and—this is his love—stops trying to reach the salmon. He looks up at her, confused. She pats his head twice more, and murmurs her love again. Silence, and he doesn’t know why they’re still there, or why he remains unfed. He uses his best manners and waits. Finally, Cynthia pats the rest of the salmon from the can onto the ground. He sniffs it, but decides he’s had enough fish anyway. ‘Yes, I love you. I love you more than her,’ she tells him, but she can’t make it make sense. He sniffs a second time, half-heartedly, and Cynthia remembers she was about to leave. The bell hasn’t rung, he doesn’t want the salmon. She touches her forehead, and scrambles up the bank. It’s steeper than it looked. He’s not eating, but standing with his head up, watching her, still waiting. She turns away, and struggles up the last bit in a big movement. At the top, she turns again, and he’s left the fish to stand with his two front paws up against the bank. He sees her looking and struggles to follow her. Not hard, he’s fat and lazy, and he doesn’t know what her going means, but he tries. The bell rings then, but he doesn’t look away. He’s shuffling all his feet, the two on the ground and the two on the bank, and not moving at all.
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