SHELF LOVE
Isee him but he can’t see me, my shelf love. I’m behind and to the left of him. Inches apart but it might be the entire world between. His eyes: bulbous, beautiful, burnished green. He shines, even under decades of dust. Balanced on his tail, his caudal fin lifted to doff the back of his head. The loop of his tail makes a ring. Through my beloved’s tail I watch the tall old man and the small new housekeeper. The housekeeper combs the old man’s hair and sits him at the table. A white-headed wolf, he picks up spoon and cup with quiet wonder, like he’s remembering how to use his paws. But mostly I gaze at my beloved’s back – supple, bowed, the curve of the dorsal ridge. His mouth is open to the heavens, the swollen pout of his lips. Rampant gurgle fish. He could swallow me whole and I’d let him!
I feel her seeing me, my shelf love. I know she is there, behind me. Porcelain face, bygone gown, head tipped back, little basket over one arm. Left toe aligned with the tip of her parasol. Painted lips no more than a brush’s whisper. I would swallow her whole if she’d let me.
Jug. He’s a jug. I’m a figurine. He’s clay. I’m porcelain. In the kitchen, the housekeeper comes and goes, raising dust, bagging junk, scrubbing. The old man sups porridge, or soup, or casserole, or cocoa. The day is long. At night we keep watching the table, laid for breakfast, a waiting stage set.
The new little housekeeper climbs on a stool and stretches up to discover a constellation of milk bottle tops, a broken lamp, a horseshoe and assorted spectacles. Then – forgotten wonders – a fish-shaped jug and a figurine. The old man watches the housekeeper from the table, picking his teeth. She perches us on the shelf she’s just cleared and says we are keepers. What a head rush: this movement after decades of still. The view suddenly different and we are together, side by side. Oh, the marine coolness of him. His smooth-scaled flank, his upturned pottery gullet next to my temple. I could press my head against his body, feel the rippling of his gills and hear the sound deep in his throat, a low burble of pleasure…
The rim of her bonnet right next to my lip – imagine – one flip and my tail surrounds her waist. We swoon into the deep. Her skirts billowing behind, one shoe lost, her eyes wide. I will adore you all the way to the sandy bottom of the sea! When we get there, she’ll kick off her last shoe and open her parasol. She’ll take my fin. Bobbing with every step. We’ll nod to the wrecks and the crabs and the seahorses, as my belly swells with pride.
To touch him, with my lips, my face, just one time, we may never be nearer.
The housekeeper shakes out her rag. She reaches for him, she turns my love in her hands, wiping. Gleaming marine beauty – flash of glaze. She sets him on the table. Then she lifts me, tips me, squinting up my petticoat. The old man is behind her calling out. She startles and lets go.
Butter knife and toast crumbs, teapot and morning talk. The old man stirs his tea and swears at the crossword. The housekeeper looks over his shoulder. Centre stage, view changed and my gape mouth full of daisies, frothing from my stomach’s pit. I heard her fall, it was almost musical, the splintering of porcelain.
Jess Kidd has a PhD in creative writing and her short story, ‘Dirty Little Fish’, won the Costa Short Story Award. Her second novel The Hoarder (Canongate) is a literary mystery about the disappearance of a child. Her simple pleasure is… “an afternoon nap on the sofa when it’s raining outside. It has to be raining!”