Dysphoria

Helen respected the crisp white of her shirt and so let the pitcher fall. Following the initial smash as glass splintered across concrete, a moment of silence passed before Adrian coughed and glowered at his wife. Fully aware that everyone had expected that she, as someone sitting closest to where the pitcher had first threatened its fall from the table, should have naturally leaned forward to catch and steady it, Helen remained still on her chair, legs dramatically crossed in her expensive Armani trousers – black, and wool, the wrong choice as the day was warm – and kept her eyes trained on the daffodils that lined the patio. Her husband continued to glower, though it was hard work as he needed to cough again and wanted a sip of water; breaking his pose would detract from the disapproval he wished to convey. Helen felt his discomfort and a thrill of excitement rendered her ever more resolute. She forced her eyes to absorb every detail of the flowers, her vision almost blurred with her dizzy pleasure.

Alison sighed loudly and pushed back her chair in a chalk board screech. She had been determined not to be the one to clear up the mess.

Because why should it be her? It was always her.

It was her house though, she thought, but immediately switched back and stayed seated. A few minutes was all she could take, however, before the worry of Adele’s feet near glass shards propelled her to move. After having warned Adele to keep playing away from the area, she turned her back to fetch the dustpan and brush from inside. And paper towels, she reminded herself. Her mouth curved into a small smile as she felt the shift in the air that was the permeable tension between her friend and the man who had married her. She imagined the scowls, tuts, the silent stand-off that may now be unfolding. Paper towels, dustpan…where’s the bloody brush? Alison turned and called through the open kitchen window into the garden to her daughter.

‘Adele?’ The small blond child looked up from where she was crouched in the middle of the rose bed. Big brownish grey eyes warmed Alison as they met her gaze. ‘Sweetheart, have you used the brush for play?’ Her voice carried the light that she felt toward her little girl. She held up the dustpan to give ‘the brush’ context. Adele screwed up her face in thought before nodding and bending down. She smiled and began to move quickly across the grass towards her mother, brush in hand. ‘Adele stay put, remember the glass.’ Adele stopped right before the patio started. Always well behaved.

It was only after Helen and Adrian had left that Alison considered that perhaps, really, one of them should have taken the brush from Adele and at least offered to brush while she mopped up the alcohol or something. And what if there was still glass out there that she had missed? What if Adele went outside tomorrow when she was working and got hurt?

Helen called her as she was pushing the tray with the cut of meat into the hot oven.

‘Not a great time, Helen. Trying to make our dinner. Did you leave something behind?’ Her voice was snappish and she knew Helen understood.

‘Sorry about Adrian. Such an irritant. It was lovely to see you earlier.’ Alison lifted an eyebrow and then she was quickly too tired to listen. Raised laughter from the television caused hot anger to flare inside her. She disliked being held hostage by the telephone and loathed unwanted noise.

'Volume down please, sweetheart’ she called through to Adele, willing her anger to remain in check. ‘Helen I have to go’ she said and cut her friend dead. Adele had been seated cross-legged before the set, watching the child-like images playing and the presenters laughing along. Now she uncrossed her legs and reached for the controls and obeyed her mother. I will have to call Helen back to apologise for being abrupt she thought, sighing, and removed the oven gloves.

But why should it be her? It was always her.