features dissolvable, each face a part of the history of Ultiface. Merlot is never upstaged by her features. Even at her most extreme last year, with statements filling her face and vying for attention: that knowing mouth; the LeaderNose; FantasySwimmingPool eyes, heavy-lidded. You can have my face, but you don’t get me. I catch myself sitting straighter, shoulders back, not trying to smile because Merlot doesn’t smile and doesn’t do Maverick, only versions of poised perfection. Mum watches, chewing slowly.
Inspired, I return to my bedroom to rip open my clothing parcel. Dad signed Mum and I up to Radiance following storage issues at home. You’re supposed to get one new item for every item recycled. I haven’t recycled for ages, so I know exactly what this will be. It is confirmed when I unfold a top that is stretching the boundaries of my style parameters. True O’Reilly is set for mainly casual stuff, and this neckline is properly plunging. I mean, they’ve got my measurements, I’m so not the tits-out type. They’ve styled the narrow sleeves I like right now, the dart at the back, structured for my body type. I hold it up against me. Emerald green – so they have my eye colour up to date. I slip it on, yank at it. It’s perfect, except, it’s too low cut. Radiance are nudging at my comfort zone, attempting to challenge my perceptions of what is ‘me,’ to expand their profits. I admit I’m tempted: it’s an amalgamation of every top I ever loved and wore out. Nothing of the items I sent straight back, unworn. Have I got to compete with my mother’s pout now? I study my reflection in the screen of my phone, and try to emulate a certain Merlot-sadness. Think distant small-scale tragedy, a downwards turn of the mouth.
When his name appears behind my face my hand flies to my collarbone, my exposed skin. My stalker has returned. I expect I won’t reply.
You still infectious?
What happened to the power of an unopened message?
Feeling better, thanks for asking.
I type it but I don’t send it. He might think I genuinely am thanking him for his interest in me- a dangerous path, gratitude.
Why hang around the Health Centre if you’re worried about catching something? I send instead.
We need to talk. (Should I get written permission from Seven first?)
What a gift. My fingers fly triumphantly over the keys.
I’m really totally madly busy.
Is Seven with you now?
He’s got to be winding me up. Like a child, a small child.
I waited for you outside the Health Centre.
The word s fire off into public and I’m left in a dragging panic. Where did that come from? My fingers are too fast for my brain. I’m sluggish with unprocessed stuff since Dad left. Think cool breeze, think Merlot. When my phone rings, I’m prepared.
“What do you want, Cliff?”
It hits to me that he’s turned his phone to face the wall and I’m addressing the corner of a double stack wardrobe, and a section of aqua coloured wall. His bedroom? Basically, I’m talking to myself again.
“I’ve got some information that might interest you.”
His voice is magnified, steady. He’s holding his mouth too near the phone, whispering, it startles like he crept up on me. I fast conclude: freak.
“Look, I only just found out what Seven said to you...ignore it. I do not need to see you. I’m going now.”
“It’s about your Mum.”
This takes a moment to process . I adjust my visual picture of old Mum, to less familiar-lips Mum.
“How do you know my Mum?”
“I don’t. But I know something about her that I’m pretty sure
Inspired, I return to my bedroom to rip open my clothing parcel. Dad signed Mum and I up to Radiance following storage issues at home. You’re supposed to get one new item for every item recycled. I haven’t recycled for ages, so I know exactly what this will be. It is confirmed when I unfold a top that is stretching the boundaries of my style parameters. True O’Reilly is set for mainly casual stuff, and this neckline is properly plunging. I mean, they’ve got my measurements, I’m so not the tits-out type. They’ve styled the narrow sleeves I like right now, the dart at the back, structured for my body type. I hold it up against me. Emerald green – so they have my eye colour up to date. I slip it on, yank at it. It’s perfect, except, it’s too low cut. Radiance are nudging at my comfort zone, attempting to challenge my perceptions of what is ‘me,’ to expand their profits. I admit I’m tempted: it’s an amalgamation of every top I ever loved and wore out. Nothing of the items I sent straight back, unworn. Have I got to compete with my mother’s pout now? I study my reflection in the screen of my phone, and try to emulate a certain Merlot-sadness. Think distant small-scale tragedy, a downwards turn of the mouth.
When his name appears behind my face my hand flies to my collarbone, my exposed skin. My stalker has returned. I expect I won’t reply.
You still infectious?
What happened to the power of an unopened message?
Feeling better, thanks for asking.
I type it but I don’t send it. He might think I genuinely am thanking him for his interest in me- a dangerous path, gratitude.
Why hang around the Health Centre if you’re worried about catching something? I send instead.
We need to talk. (Should I get written permission from Seven first?)
What a gift. My fingers fly triumphantly over the keys.
I’m really totally madly busy.
Is Seven with you now?
He’s got to be winding me up. Like a child, a small child.
I waited for you outside the Health Centre.
The word s fire off into public and I’m left in a dragging panic. Where did that come from? My fingers are too fast for my brain. I’m sluggish with unprocessed stuff since Dad left. Think cool breeze, think Merlot. When my phone rings, I’m prepared.
“What do you want, Cliff?”
It hits to me that he’s turned his phone to face the wall and I’m addressing the corner of a double stack wardrobe, and a section of aqua coloured wall. His bedroom? Basically, I’m talking to myself again.
“I’ve got some information that might interest you.”
His voice is magnified, steady. He’s holding his mouth too near the phone, whispering, it startles like he crept up on me. I fast conclude: freak.
“Look, I only just found out what Seven said to you...ignore it. I do not need to see you. I’m going now.”
“It’s about your Mum.”
This takes a moment to process . I adjust my visual picture of old Mum, to less familiar-lips Mum.
“How do you know my Mum?”
“I don’t. But I know something about her that I’m pretty sure
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