Short Fiction

The Canary was reliable but she looked at the clock just to be sure. 5:15am – the bird was amazing, a second later the clock radio lit up and filled Clancy’s bedroom with the sound of gentle jazz. She fought the urge to simply lie quietly in bed and listen to the Canary sing along with Dizzy Gillespie for “just a few minutes” and threw the feather doona back and allowed the cool morning air to caress her naked body.
She sat up in bed, swung her feet onto the rug, pausing momentarily to approve of her toenails. She’d made a quick stop at the “Nail Nook” on her way home from the office the night before, and, almost on a whim, decided against her normal turquoise blue and opted instead for a delicate roseate metallic pink. It had been a whim but a good choice; her feet looked more dainty somehow, and definitely girlier. Just looking at her toes wiggle gave her an odd tingle that was half arousal, and hard on the heels of that, something less pleasant. ‘What was wrong with her?’ It had been nearly ten long months since she’d had a man? Suddenly being successful and single seemed like a poor lie made up to console oneself for being lonely. She used perusal technique for banishing such thoughts, and stood up, stretching herself to her full 5 foot seven height, and tried to touch the ceiling, just to feel her spine stretch.
Her back clicked, twice. She sighed, suddenly her thirty-four years seemed very old. She padded into the room’s ensuite, filled her cupped hands with cold water and immersed her face. The shock of the water brought her runaway thoughts back into some sort of control, and she stared at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were definitely her best feature, startlingly green and unexpected in her Asian face; she stared back at herself boldly, almost angrily, ashamed of her earlier weakness. She hadn’t got a man because she hadn’t been motivated enough to look for one. No her thoughts paused, actually, that wasn’t quite right. She’d been scared of the kind of man who would hit on her, whenever she went anywhere and looked even slightly available.
She thought of her friends, Alice, whose standards were such that she seemed to go through men the way a forest fire goes through trees, and Meryl in her loose- knit polyamorous four or five person marriage, that seemed to an unbiased observer far more stable than any of the “normal” binary marriages Clancy had seen, where many problems would cause changes in membership or cause an implosion and this one simply changed shape, absorbing new members and simply forgetting old ones. Clancy had received welcoming signals from Meryl’s catch on more than one occasion but some form of trepidation had stopped her accepting the offer. In fact she probably had more in common with Tanya the Schoolteacher, who was snowed in under work that she rarely even had time for first Tuesday drinks at the Rex.
Her bathroom was definitely her favourite room in the house. She had never once regretted having it retiled in the deep moss green that went so wonderfully with the gold fittings and diffused white lighting. She stood up, backed away from the sink, in the mirror, she was well-lit in a deep dark space. It picked up her one-piece maillot swimming costume – her favourite dark green with a jungle of metallic green leaves on it, appreciated how it looked in the mirror for a moment, and then dragged on pair of clean enough grey tracksuit pants from the laundry hamper, hung her front door key around her neck, pulled on a pair of white “Nike” trainers and scooted out of the apartment.
She barely thought about it. The lift was too slow, more importantly, it was a claustrophobic steel box. She took the stairs, charging down in a pell-mell rush, holding the steel bannister and swinging wide around the landings, down all five flights to the ground floor and out onto the street and footpath.
It was ten minutes walk down a gentle down-hill slope, but if you ran it was a lot quicker than that. Clancy ran, sticking to the broad grassy nature strip, and not slowing as she zoomed under low tree branches. She still felt silly making doppler speed noises in her head as she did this but it was a habit that had remained entrenched since childhood.
She fetched up against the white wooden fence that edged the low cliff over the ocean hard enough to hurt the palms of her hands, and took the steps down to the beach two at a time. The sand was still crisp from last night’s dew and the single set of tracks led from the base of the steps to the water’s edge in an almost straight line.
It was, it must be said, not much of a day. The sky was grey and littered with an assortment of rather lumpy clouds of varying shades of greyness. She slid her track pants down her legs, hooked her trainers off, folded the pants and placed them on the sand with the shoes on top of them.
She walked out into the surf; let the highest of the low waves break over her crotch. The water was not cold, in fact it was surprisingly invigorating, and, for this time of the morning, almost warm.
A wave, slightly higher than normal, caught her unawares, pressed her back two steps across the sand.
She stared at the lightest part of the horizon. A pinpoint of white light pierced between two clouds. Her heart lifted, it was the sun. She stood, letting the knowledge sing through her until the sun had become a complete disc, balanced on the horizon by its’ bottom edge. Then, without conscious volition, she caused her body to fall forwards into the water, and started swimming towards the rising sun.
She swam well, taking joy in the completeness of her body and the caress of the water as it slipped past her skin and into a complex slipstream-swirl behind her.

She swam to the point where the threads of her conscious mind reminded her, in the past she would have been at the limit of safety and she kept swimming. The knowledge appeared in her suddenly, and, without argument, she altered course ninety degrees to the left, and swam, back towards the long white beach.

The first she knew of her return to land was the wave. It picked her up and lifted her towards land. The movement in the water was a shock after the calm at deeper depths. On the next stroke, the fingers of her right had dug into the shoreline sand. She stood, walked up onto the hard-pack shore, turned left and walked back along the beach until she found her stuff where she had left it. She sat, wrapped her arms around her knees and stared at the horizon. The sun was now its own diameter and, while it was still hidden behind a grey cloud and showed only as a white disk, it was still high enough to deliver a barely detectable heat, while still being filtered enough to gaze at directly.
Something caused her to turn her head and look down the beach. There, at the waters edge, in the distance, was that a human figure? The afterimage of the sun made it difficult to tell. She blinked, the after-image lost intensity and turned a deep emerald green, and suspended within it seemed to be a human figure, walking along the beach, towards her. Alone. Closer and closer until the figure had blobby arms and legs, closer still and the emerald afterimage was superimposed on his loins. She snapped her head away, so he wouldn’t get the wrong idea, looked out at the horizon. The afterimage was overpowered by the now fully risen sun. She closed her eyes and felt the warmth on her eyelids.
Clancy became acutely aware of the sounds in the sand next to her. Feet. Two clicks. Knees. A sigh. She waited an age, trying to rejoin with the sound of the waves, which had once seemed so all encompassing but now seemed to be vying for her attention with the beating of her heart, and turned her head and looked, again.

He was sitting beside her on the sand, in the same position. Squatting, with his arms around his knees. His eye sockets were pressed into his knees, so she felt safer taking a longer look than she had intended. He had, she decided, a pleasantly shaped ear nicely set off by a gold ring sleeper with a single green bead, probably jade, hanging on it. She belatedly realised that staring into his ear was liable to attract his attention and that, moreover, staring into the ears of people you haven’t been formally introduced to was undoubtedly bad manners.

He turned his head and looked directly into her face. He didn’t seem surprised to find that she was already looking at him. His eyes were the same bright vibrant green as his earrings.
His eyes smiled first, open and welcoming
Then his mouth smiled. It said “Hello”
Caught off guard by such an innocuous greeting, Clancy was momentarily lost for words, on one hand, if she was too welcoming, he might take it the wrong way and start chatting her up, spoiling her quiet time, with boring chatter designed to charm his way into her having sex with him whether she really wanted to or not, and while it must be said he was attractive and did have nicely kissable lips, her quiet time was hers, and while he was definitely attractive, the tired rigmarole of small talk that preceded sex, definitely wasn’t.
It really was taking a long time to reply, soon she’d be crossing the line into rude.
“Hello.” Her voice was scratchy from long disuse, but he didn’t seem to mind.
And, as far as it went, ”Hello” wasn’t a bad opening line. It was polite, neither demeaning or retarded, and left the way open for real communication, on an equal footing. So much better than “If beauty was a crime I’d give you a life sentence.” Or, in another bar on another night, ”Are you after someone sensitive and funny? I usually cry after sex, and women laugh at me for that.”
Instead he said; “My name is Declan, I’ve seen you here before.”
“Pleased to meet you Declan, my name is Clancy.” She always made a point of repeating new people’s names out lout, to better remember them “I’ve never seen you, the beach has always been deserted.”
“I was up there – I live up there.” He said twisting his body and gesturing vaguely at the top of the cliff behind them.
“Really?” Clancy was instantly jealous, as only a Sydney native can be, when presented with superior real estate. ”Which one?” There was a row of apartment blocks all along the cliff edge ranging from the splendidly new, to still impressive vintage ones.
“Not thhat one, I live in thethe baby-shit brown brick from the 1970’s. See those white- steel railings on the bottom balcony? I sleep there if the weather is good, and I’ve gotten used to seeing you. I look forward to it.” So,
Far from the worst block, In fact, one of the better ones. Clancy marvelled at how real estate apparently took precedence over potentially far more important topics, like the way he was looking at her.
She waited, a baited trap.
“I’m hungry.”
Interesting.
“For what?” She spoke levelly, putting herculean effort into keeping the slightest hint of coquetry out of her voice. What he said next could be a deal breaker. If his original line had been a set up for some flaccid double entendre humour, the emoji of the little face vomiting green would be a likely response. It’s a pity it could not be effectively verbalised.
“I thought toasted crumpet with butter, slathered with honey, actually.”
Clancy lit up like a pinball machine.
“Wow!” She laughed. “For a minute there I was worried you might say something gross.”
“Gross? How?”
“Well,” Suddenly she was almost reluctant to be clear. “Well, that you’d say you wanted to eat me for example.”
“Jeez – are men that gross?”
“It’s not always men – some women can be like that, too.”
He blinked, and apparently decided not to pursue the idea.
“Well, I’m not. So, do you f eel like breakfast? If a honey crumpet and tea doesn’t appeal, there is a selection of other stuff – and the view of course, though you won’t be in it.”
“If I accept, I’ll certainly be in the view and a lot closer.”
“Please say yes, I’ve got proper muesli and Honey Smacks!” She really had to laugh she hadn’t eaten a honey smack since she was a child, staying at her Dad’s house, on visitation days.
“How could I possibly refuse? Yes! I’ll come”
“The stairs you came down are actually closer than the ones I used. Shall we?”
Clancy let him lead, unexpectedly enough she suddenly felt shy about the size of her bum, even though she felt silly. But she had to admit she didn’t mind watching him from behind as he walked, he had nice shoulders. The side door of Declan’s unit block was a large sheet of frosted glass surrounded by a white wooden frame. The key was in a small pocket in his swim shorts, and the ground floor flat was up one short flight of pastel-tiled stairs. Their footsteps echoed on the hard floor and bare walls even though they were both barefoot. As the key clunked into the lock, Clancy realised that the short walk had made her hungrier than she hadexpected.
“It’s not much, I’m afraid, but please come in.”
She hoped that if there was “good granola”, that there was good yoghurt to mix with it. As for the Honey Smacks, she’d try a few, just for nostalgia’s sake. The crumpet with honey? God, she did have an appetite! * 
Clancy’s heart was hammering so loudly, she wondered if he’d hear it when she stepped over the threshold. He had a good grasp of reality and the truth, it was a nice enough apartment in its early 1970’s Soviet utilitarian way, but precisely zero had been done with it. Brick walls covered with cement render painted with flat duck-egg blue paint, doubtless the cheapest the estate agent could find. A chest high bookcase crammed with the spines of brightly coloured paperbacks. Here and there, four pieces pieces of the parquet floor were missing. In one place a small red rug had been used to minimise the trip-hazard. A framed page from H.R. Giger’s “Necronomicon” hung near the bookcase.
A portable black-and white CRT television sat atop a milk crate facing the long pale blue fabric covered couch, at the far end of which sat a glass bong. The water was dirty, and, oddly, Clancy was struck by a strong urge to pick it up and clean it.
“I won’t say it needs a woman’s touch,” she said, tongue firmly in cheek, “But it definitely needs something.”
“At the risk of stating the obvious, it needs the smell of breakfast and, in spite of all the options I’ve mentioned, I’ve developed a hankering for an egg-ring fried egg on a toasted muffin – could I interest you in one, Perhaps?”
He was trying very hard to please but, in Clancy’s opinion had not crossed the line into obsequious, and certainly not creepy. She found herself staring, with disbelief at the only light fitting she could see in the room, on the ceiling, a long white metal box held two long fluorescent tubes. She shuddered to think what the room would look like if they were the main source of illumination.
“Do you use those lights?”
Declan put two eggs from the fridge into a bowl and looked up “Sorry? Oh. Only when I have to – they’re a bit bright. Only to read by at night.”
“You could change to something – else?” She really meant, “Anything else” but the subtext was probably obvious.
“I’ve asked, but, pardon the French- the Landlord is *le dichead*
Even here? The rent must be astronomical.”
“It was when the place was new but now he regrets never fixing it up high but he likes throwing his weight around, keeps saying he’ll redecorate, but he’s cheap like a canary, regards a new toothbrush as a major capital outlay – and he really needs one.”
“I have a pet Canary at home.” Declan looked at her in surprise. ”Yes? What’s it’s name?”
“Frank. Frank Pantangeli.”
Declan whooped with laughter. The teacup in Declan’s hands rattled in its saucer.
You could leave the fluros, never use them and have some nice low lamps in the corners.

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