by Clio Velentza, 3.24am May 10th 2021
They take turns existing whenever the doorbell rings. One hides away and the other pretends they are alone, as if the eye of the storm is on them. Each time it comes they smile and they say nothing. They will present the papers: one misty abstract photo, a quiet and incurious face – it could be either, it could be anyone. They will nod politely: yes, isn’t that my name? Isn’t that my face? And then they’ll shut the door and grin with thumping hearts. They have one face, one plate, one glass, one bottle of plum brandy. For all its obscure nooks, isn’t this a good home? Or maybe just not quite, enough to hear the crew above tear chunks of it like butter? They crawl under the bed: one face, one pair of bodies, one bottle of plum brandy. Isn’t that my name, they laugh, isn’t that my face? They drink, and look out for the sun.