short thing #19

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