SUGAR

The third time she says nothing. I hear her rummaging in a bag. The mono quality insect chorus of makeup containers. Lipsticks and compacts, mirrors and plastic handled brushes. Disjointed, muffled, protesting the intrusion of light fingers. The displacement stops with a final falling din. From the fresh silence, envelope sounds emerge. Rasping paper opening; soothing smooth withdrawal of contents. I hear a knee cracking as she squats. Not enough calcium in the diet. She is of the knock-kneed generation. The crippled hunch of old age too far away. The aching of bones an afterthought. Fashion never favours sensible shoes or posture. It’s about freedom to express yourself. Just like everyone else. You have the freedom of the prison yard. But only from five until six.

Knee uncracks, foot twists on the mat. Shuffle slide slip stand. I cannot move. I want to. She is holding me there, my ears open. My eyes wait for glimpses, my ears words. Her voice is floating. It rises like helium through the slot. High pitched and bouncing, smiling in sound.
“This is for you, Masa-kun. There is time on our side if nothing else. I will bring one more each time I visit. People are not as easy to judge as you may think. Maybe we will see more of each other. Maybe we won’t. It’s up to you. We are the sum of many parts, and this is the first. I hope that by the time you have seen me I will be able to see you as well.”

I taste sugar in my mouth. Sickly strawberry bread on my tastebuds. I swallow despite myself. Sweetness coats my tongue; slides down my throat. With the taste comes energy. It carves lethargy into bite-sized pieces. Easier to digest that way. Red jam meets red blood. The warmth is spreading as memories return. There was happiness back then. I forget that sometimes. But only sometimes, just like happiness. She is force-feeding me small pieces. What will happen when I am full?

“I will come back tomorrow, Masa-kun. Is that OK?” Consent escapes my lips before I can think. The word spits out, flying treacherously away. I am making it too easy for her. I don’t even know who she is. Just a foot and a voice for now. Her sounds accompany her receding presence. I sense she doesn’t look back. She has that certainty in her words. Why would she need to?

I slump down by the slot. Sugar crystallizes in my veins. Slows my heart rate. Anticipating whatever lies behind the wood. My eyes strain as I drag them upwards. Dark floor to light mat to something. She is mocking me, I am sure. A stuffed Kitty-Chan doll meets my eyes. It has no mouth. No-one can hear me speak. It can’t move; I can’t leave. We have more in common than I thought. But I scorn what it represents. That face value cuteness belies emptiness. It sits, arms outstretched, offering to my temple. A single Polaroid reflects the ceiling light. No one uses them anymore. Not in this megapixelled digital age. You can’t plug them into a computer. You can’t share them with the world. They are invisible to millions. Just for you and those close by. The personal touch and the naked eye. You can’t alter a Polaroid snap. They will curl, fade and spoil. They will crack and bend. But for one moment, they are the truth. They record what is real. There is no choice but to believe them.