Brink

He says, nothing sinister, just wiping that jam from your cheek.

Dense, alabaster white, the silence between us. His finger tracing my right cheek, hovering around the hairs above my upper lip. 

Did you get it? I’m careless, thank you. In the mornings especially. Is that all of it? I say.

My forefinger drifts over the skin shuffle he’s left behind. Doesn’t land. Doesn’t disturb the precious.

Yes, he says.

Navy suit jacket. Black trousers too shiny about his knees. Dark hair middle-parted gathered rough behind his ears. Younger than me. Where’s his other thumb?

How much? I say.

Palm tight around my cotton purse. Curtailed fingers. Threading.

He says, how much jam?

Wiping his finger on his sleeve. Taller than me, off-cut eyes. Not from around here. Voice too nasal, trill. 

How much should I pay? I say.

Soft clatter from Mrs Campbell’s letterbox across the hall. Wheezing cough.         Silence.

He says, a fiver.

Palm tight around my cotton purse. Curtailed fingers. Kneading.

Can you come again? I didn’t know there were people who did this, what would you call it?  I didn’t catch your name, I say.

Dip my knees. Floral orange nightie curtsey. Hem working loose about my calves. Cheek sticky tingle. Unravelling.

He says, yes.

Purple scar spilling from his left ear, breath curdle sour.

It’s so long, since, you know. I struggle, there’s something about someone else. Dead. He died, I say.

Pull at the belt around my towelling gown, tucking my thumb in. Shouldn’t have said that.

He says, when?

When was anything all of it everything so much time when was the lamenting all that separating?

I have jam on weekdays. Sundays if Helen brings bread.  She uses a machine. I smell it at night, patisserie dreams, Paris choux. Sorry, talking too much, it’s been so long, I say.

He shifts from one foot to another. Eyes about me. Black abraded boots. The shining.

I’m at church, he says, on Sundays.

Blue daypack slung over his right shoulder, grubby union jack stitched to the outer pocket.

The church with the minister in the red shoes?  Comforting, the way his robes whisper when he walks. Secrets, I say, and riddles.

Stepping towards me, boot in my doorway, boot in my hall, hand reaching for mine.    

He says, yes.

Shuffling back from him. He’s too close. Where to put my hands?

Before church? You don’t need to come in, I say.

Skin flake on his lip. Psoriasis-raw knuckles.

He says, I can come in. 

Soft clatter from Mrs Campbell’s letterbox across the hall. Wheezing cough.         Silence.

Really, it’s okay like this. Or maybe don’t come. You’re busy, I say.

He’s crossing my brink, my liminal. 

He says, I’ll come. Raspberry, isn’t it?

His missing thumb on mine, belly heaving flush. Helen picks the raspberries in the gulley behind the hospital. Too brave, Helen, shouldn’t go there.

The light in the hall flickers. Church bells chime in the distance. Chime and chime and chime.

Again.