Seeing the light by Nasim Marie Jafry
She slept with two hot water bottles, one on either side. In the early hours, she’d kick them out. They lay on the floor like cold, flabby animals.
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She was relieved to wake up. She’d dreamt a black horse wearing a turquoise blanket was on fire. She made coffee and checked the fridge light, closing the door slowly until she could no longer see the light, then slowly opening it again, her cheek pressed against the metal edge, until the light came on.
It struck her how often you saw people in films going into the fridge. The fridges were always silver and huge. These people didn’t obsess about the light still being on when the door was closed. They just took out orange juice or milk and forgot about it.
Amir had said, I can no longer cope with your anxiety. She’d replied, I can no longer cope with your brutality. Were you ever tender? I can’t remember.
You also saw people in films brushing their teeth a lot.
She liked the fridge scenes, and wondered what food was in the fridge, the food you never saw. But the bathroom scenes disgusted her, couples spitting into the basin together.
She’d thought of chopping up tulip stems and putting them in his salad. Easy enough to confuse tulip stems with spring onions, M’lud.
Of course, she never would, this kind of thing only happened in films. A character in a film could without punishment chop up stems to poison their tedious husband.
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