She was lying face down on a frayed and faded orange towel next to the pool in the sun, observing the jar of copper bodied beetles rescued from the bottom of the pool. The shade was inching ever closer to the pool edge, a reminder that the light of the day was going, and preparations needed to be made to survive the night. Vaguely in the distance came the sound of a motorbike, that distinct whine that she knew so well. Gears changing down as it approached the traffic lights behind the house.
With fluid practiced movements, she jumped up, and in two strides was at the flowerbed alongside the wall. She gently tipped the beetles on the ground, dead or alive, there was no reason to harm these pretty beetles. Thankfully, the bricks were still hot enough to dry any possible wet patches that might have given up evidence of the afternoon entertainment. She had been very careful with the towel making sure she had only used it to lie on and not dry herself off with. Wet towels were evidence of time misspent. Moving quickly, like a cat hunting prey, with eyes and ears on full alert, she moved through the house into the room at the end, changing into shorts and a shirt ran into the toilet, closing the door softly behind her. Immediately sat down on the toilet, as if she really needed it. She did not, she never did.
Waiting intently to hear the voice of the rider, as well as the sounds that were indicators of the volatility of the rider’s mood. This was the daily ritual, hide and listen. Either end of the rider’s mood scale, one could not hide in the toilet forever. It served as a space to ready oneself for words that cut like many shiny blades.
She took a deep breath, with her head bowed down, as if in prayer to only her inside self that stayed protected and insulated by her cocoon of silence to the world. She imagined that as she lifted her head to face the evening, her eyes were black and dead, her soul burning with a deep hate that could leave her body and set him on fire.
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