Christmas Eve.

Once again, like the dropout bum you are, you haven’t bought your kids anything. A light on in the window; pet shop presents hope. Small. Cute. Cheap. You buy it, throw it in the back of your car. Those gloves your mother gave you are ruined forever.

Mid-april and the kids have forgotten about it. Let it have sun and water, the instruction manual says, so you put it on the window sill for a few weeks. One night you go down for a glass of water and it’s waiting for you. It doesn’t have eyes, not yet, but you feel its gaze on the back of your neck; not staring, but observing. Blank and meaningless like a cheque written for a man who no longer exists.

The next night, you feel the urge to go down and get another glass of water. Things blur – you come to standing at the foot of the bed, holding it in your hands. You can feel it writhing repulsively in its pot, trying to get free. What does it want?

Days pass. The police arrive. Questions, where did you see her last? what was she wearing? Your children are unconsolable. You, strangely, feel nothing. It’s as though Susanne never existed; no great ragged hole, just a blank space forever and always.

You take your new wife up to your room with you and put her on the bedside table. She accepts your gift of water gratefully, her bland attention more comforting than mere smiles. You turn out the light and spread out, room enough for you at last. You wonder why you didn’t do this before. People seem hardly worth the trouble…