a
secret slice of pizza
And now he had two daughters. One was eight years old, one four and a half. She had
two daughters, too, obviously, as they shared their children, but sometimes the
girls felt like his and hers. Separate beings, with different identities,
depending on the adult around.
When he had started the business they were still young, she was 28 and
he was 29. The eldest was ‘on the way’ but they both agreed that the hours one
could choose, when a business owner, were more conducive to family life than
his career at the time. He had agreed with her, at least.
His business thrived. Hours and days became weeks and years and his
daughters’ experiences were different than the ones he had expected them to
have. Their tent then their caravan were packed away for most of the year until
they had a long weekend in November or a few days between Christmas and New
Year’s to enjoy family time.
They took photographs that she shared with the world to prove to
somebody that they were away. She shared that they were having a wonderful
holiday. That this was the life. That they were so grateful. That he deserved
this. That the girls loved camping. That the simple things in life were often
the best.
He played Uno with his youngest.
When home, he worked at the factory. She worked at the house that
they’d built when the youngest was ‘on the way’. It was her dream house. She
had had this house in her head since she was little. She knew exactly what it
looked like. The cushions matched, but not exactly. The bench-side stools were
comfortable yet stylish.
The lighting was perfect.
When his eldest was ready he took the morning off for the first walk to
school. The excitement was sunshine with her pigtails and stiff uniform. She
held her mother’s hand while he watched, walking behind. In the end carrying
the near two year old, so he didn’t miss out.
But most mornings, now, she walked the eldest to school. She walked
the youngest to kinder. Soon they’d both be in uniforms and pigtails. With
lunch-boxes and drink bottles and hats.
He liked the mess on the bench afterwards. If he got home early. Before
his wife packed it all away.
On weekends when the girls had lessons or games or play dates or
parties, he would hide. Mow lawns. Watch sport. Play golf. Or pick them up at
the end. Dutifully.
He didn’t know what to say to these people. He didn’t have the small
talk ability of his wife. He didn’t understand why people even talked about
these things.
He didn’t understand why his wife talked about these things.
Sometimes on a Saturday morning when she had taken the eldest to
netball, he would take the youngest grocery shopping. There was rarely too many
things to buy, but he’d find some treats, or some barbecue meats from the butcher.
And his youngest would chat and sing and skip up the main street. She would
often have her security teddy in tow. He loved how that bear smelled of her
sleepiness.
When the eldest was little, his wife had been convinced that she was
allergic to dairy. She had recipe books now, and a few blogs that she followed
for ideas. The eldest was compliant and never complained. The youngest had fire
in her belly and loved bakery store, vanilla slices.
At work, his wife would drop in to help with the accounts. Or touch
base with some old clients. She wore tight pants even though her body had
changed some since the girls. The skirts weren’t short, but he noticed they
were tight, too.
When he saw women in their early twenties he remembered what she had
been like then. She was always smiling. He always knew how much she wanted
children. He liked how she reminded him of his mother. And in some ways, his
favourite aunt. He wanted children, then, too. She would be a great mother.
He forgot, however, to remember he needed a friend.
Sometimes on a Saturday morning he’d buy his youngest a slice of
pizza. It was too early for pizza but they would sit outside, or inside in the
winter-time, and she would pull the pineapple off and leave it on the plate.
Even after he’d asked if she wanted him to order it without pineapple.
When they got home from the shops and netball. When they’d had
gluten-free, salad rolls for lunch. When the girls were on the trampoline. When
the lawn was mowed. When the washing was dry. When bananas and rice crackers
and cheese and strawberries and sultanas were eaten in a rush to get back
outside. When dinner was in the oven. When the dips were on the table. When
their friends had come over. When the girls and their friends had spilled their
drinks at the dinner table. When the wine was finished. When their friends
reversed out of the driveway. When the girls were asleep. When she spent
fifteen minutes in the ensuite. When he wondered what it was like to have sex
with his wife with the light still on. When she was pretending to be asleep.
He knew exactly what tomorrow was going to be.
And she couldn’t figure out what to do next.
(c) Samantha Florence, 2014
(c) Samantha Florence, 2014
