Our conversation
on the phone is stilted like always. “I can’t talk right now,” I tell her. I
cannot deal with Charlotte; the fuzzy static voice of her mobile in one ear,
the low green rumble of my refrigerator in the other. I think I’m losing all
sense of reality.
”I want meat I want meat I want meat.”
The fridge’s chanting gets louder.
“You’ll get bloody meat,” I scream. The
mantra gets faint in my head but is still there. Insistent.
“Is this about the restaurant last night?” Charlotte’s voice returns with a crackle. My hands grip the steering
wheel like I’m having a seizure. My eyes sting from the warm air de-misting the
windscreen.
“No no, the restaurant last night, no. I
can’t talk right now. I’ll call you later.” As I click the END CALL button I
hear her trying to shriek the last word. Again the chanting of the fridge rises
in my brain. Cool and crisp.
“I want meat I want meat I want meat.”