It bubbles like a phenomenon, in a liquefaction of green-black cream. But is just a humble meal. A fixer-upper. Gathered, shelled, hammered, sliced. And simmered. Fix you up. Fix it all up. Johnny’s mother runs her hand along his jaw checking for stubble.
Someone was in the kitchen again. Cupboard doors opened and closed. Footsteps, not loud but not furtive either. Plates rattled in the sink and a coffee maker gurgled. I could smell butter melting in the frying pan. And that sounded like a food processor.
With the tide right out the three boys made their first rectangle on the flat, hard sand, near the water line. “Wider,” said Stone. “We’re playing seven rounds,” said Cog. Rabbits looked at where Cog was on the beach. “Yeah, wider,” he said.
Erana looked up from washing the dishes. There it was again, that rather high-pitched wail. It sort of took off like a jet airliner zooming upwards and then fell back into disuse just as quickly. She listened, but it was gone.