Sweet Cream and Marmalade

by duncapher

“Mother, may I have a dime?”

“Lend him a dime, mother.”

“I’ve no dime to lend, son.”

“Mother, may I have a nickel?”

“Lend him a nickel, mother.”

“I’ve not even a nickel, father.”

“Mother, may I have tuppence?”

“It’s my tuppence, son.”

“Where did you find tuppence, mother?”

“Mother, I wish you’d just…”

“I’ve baked you apple raspberry pie; it’s cooling on the windowsill. Would you like a slice, son?”

“Offer him some milk, mother.”

“Mother, you know I love your apple raspberry pie.”

“You make the most delicious apple raspberry pie, mother.”

“Mother, I wish I could learn to bake like you.”

“I’ve baked it just for you, son.”

“Mother, quit your malarky. I haven’t come here for pie.”

“These tuppence are mine, son.”

“There’s a terrible draft; would you close the windows, mother?”

“Mother, you know, I can’t even stand the sight of you.”

“How could you say such a thing, son?”

“Mother, it would be unfair if I stayed. It’s time I leave.”

“Close the windows before you go, son.”

“You alone are tearing me apart, with those magnificently strong hands of yours, those evil hands, son…”

“Father, I’ll write you some day. Expect a picture postcard.”

“But son;”

“Mother, I have nothing to say to you.”

“Would you mind bringing me a cup of tea, son?”

“Father, you know I would do anything for you.”

“Don’t speak to him like that, son.”

“Plenty of sugar, please, son.”

“And buttermilk, son.”

“Father, don’t listen to her. She is trying to fatten you up.”

“I ought to clean your mouth out with soap, son.”

“Mother, I ought to gut you with my penknife.”

“‘I’ before ‘E’ except after ‘C,’ brother.”

“Sister! Where have you been?”

“I’ve been sleeping under the bridge, brother.”

“Sister, I’ve warned you about that bridge.”

“My, my, what a pretty little bowtie, brother!”

“Sister, you’ll see my name in the pages before long.”

“It’s only self-delusion, brother.”

“Sister, you’ve never been there for me.”

“You’re incredibly self-delusional, brother.”

“Sister! Come with me!”

“Come again, brother?”

“Sister; there is no home for me here. There is no thing for me here.”

“O’, brother.”

Run along and giddyup, little foe-eyed fawn, prance along posily, posey to posey, ring around the rosey, singing songs love of love and cherishment. When you told me that you loved me, I blinked in astonishment. The world is my oyster is my self is my world. I’m taking a taxi to New Town to dine for a while. I’ll see you when I see you.

Another romantic afternoon by the Champs-Elysees or an evening drinking in modern art by the Thames; nothing left to marvel at. Only our own intution towards clandestine self-destruction. Poppy seeds and Vivaldi and three-hundred thirty milliliters of Coca-Cola. It’s an irascible tendency but the only one left. Keep the pages on the books uncut. There’s nothing left to be read. The drama is too real to be fictionalized, the tragedy too all-encompassing. Pins and needles, molting fish in the sand.