The elephants are the first exhibit, after the gift shop. He lifts the child so she can see. Her armpits are warm as hot cross buns. The elephant with foamy lips tosses its head, exposing the whites of its unfocused eyes.
‘Is that one dancing?’ asks the child.
‘Yes,’ says her father, at the same time as her mother says,
‘No.’
The child is returned to the ground. Ahead she can see the monkey cages. Her father jingles change, tells her to get an ice cream. Her mother frowns. The child melts lolly down her fist, thinks about icebergs.
She steadies herself on the buggy, nauseous. The twins are in ape masks, their trainers flashing red as they run. Last night was her first night out since the baby. She tastes gin and coconut at the back of her throat. She had enjoyed the way the barman talked to her breasts.
This morning she wanted to roll over and jab someone else into action, but the bed was large and barren. Just one lamp, one glass of water. Her tights balled by the window.
She watches a couple enviously, the dad wiping his daughter’s mouth with a tissue.
The teacher leads her children, a tail of noise. She feels the heat of them at her back. Every now and then, she turns and tells them to
‘Shh. Watch. Listen.’ This is her mantra.
In the car, letting the clutch control her, she warns herself,
‘Shh. Watch.’
In bed, with her lover, she bites her lip. Hoping to hold back,
‘Shh, Listen.’ He takes her scrunched face for repressed pleasure. Tells her to let go. He doesn’t understand what it means, to lead a crocodile of children. To always be looking for dark men, electric sockets. Black ice.
All content ©2009 Lizzy Dening
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